Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It takes her phone ringing four times and the door buzzer sounding twice for Andy to wake up.

She startles awake, still clinging to the sweet dreamworld memories of Booker kissing his way down her neck, and all but falls out of bed reaching for her phone. Four missed calls and six unread messages, all from Booker, and her heart pounds even harder against the inside of her sternum when her door buzzer blares again in a frantic, staccato beat.

Tugging a shirt on, Andy races to the front door, fingers fumbling for the intercom button. “Book?” she mumbles, rubbing her tired eyes. “That you?”

Her blood runs cold as the only answer she gets is a crackled mess of sobbing and unintelligible, hysterical French. It’s nothing like she’s ever heard from Booker and it takes Andy less than a minute to race out the door and fly down the three flights of stairs to get to the front door.

The world spins, tilts, and then comes to a blinding halt the moment she sees Booker.

He’s covered in blood, dripping from his nose and mouth and the massive scrape on his limp, swollen left arm, and looking around frantically as he struggles to catch his breath. Booker catches sight of Andy frozen in the doorway and the tears suddenly come all over again.

Andy blinks, coming back into her body as she pushes the door open, reaching out for her lover with shaking hands. “Book, what…fuck…what happened?!”

Booker chokes on another sob, his entire body trembling with terrified panic as he looks over his shoulder out into the dark city night. “She—Andy, s-she—je—je ne p-pouvais pas l’arrêter,” he says, words slurring together as he crumbles under his turmoil.

She shakes her head, trying to get him steady enough to make any kind of sense. “Book, babe, I don’t—” Her confusion dies and worry sets in deep when Booker sways, blood seeping in rivulets down his chin and fingers. “Jesus, you need to go to a fucking hospital. Just let me get my—”

He shakes his head again, even more frantic now, and Andy can barely breathe when Booker barks out a broken, “She took the f-fucking boys, Andy!”

No.

No, no, no, no, this couldn’t be happening. It had been six months since she had first kissed Booker the night of his anniversary with Léa and everything had been normal. Six months of abuse, six months of bloody noses, broken fingers, and a particularly nasty burn from a curling iron. Six months of stolen kisses and deleted texts. Six months of Andy quietly taking pictures of the scars and the injuries and the vicious texts Booker had been subjected to.

Six months of hell for both of them.

Andy feels frozen in place, unable to breathe as her mind rushes through all of the terrible scenarios in her head. She knows Léa loved their boys as much as Booker did and, while Andy can’t imagine she’d do anything to hurt them, she knows Léa would do anything for the chance to hurt Booker.

Booker, on the other hand, seems to be fearing the worst. He runs his uninjured hand through his hair, hyperventilating past the point of return, and can barely get the words out at all as he chokes, “She took—she f-fucking took them. Saw—she saw me—a text from you—” His glassy, bloodshot eyes go unfocused as he spins around, looking back down the street frantically. “I couldn’t—She fucking t-took my b-boys!”

But before Andy can try and offer any kind of placation, Booker’s eyes suddenly roll back into his head for a split second—his knees buckling as he collapses in the doorway. Andy rushes forward, catching him just before Booker’s head hits the ground.

“Fuck!” she gasps, heart plummeting into her stomach when she cradles his head and feels the dried blood and egg-sized swollen lump at the back of Booker’s skull. Andy smoothes a palm over his cheek, murmuring, “Book? Come on, baby, wake up.” His eyes flutter open, unfocused and dazed, but he’s still searching for her face and that’s all that matters. “There you are,” Andy chokes, pushing the hair out of Booker’s face with a shaking hand. “Come on, I need to get you upstairs.”

It takes her almost ten minutes to haul Booker to his unsteady feet and into the elevator, trying to keep him from dripping blood down the hall.

“My…m’b-boys,” Booker slurs, head lolling to the side as Andy all but carries him over the threshold into her apartment. “‘ndy, m…my boys…”

“I know, I know,” she murmurs, laying him out on the couch as carefully as she can. “We’re going to find them, but you need to lay down so you don’t pass out again.” Booker tries to push himself up again, but Andy presses a gentle hand to his sternum. “Rest,” she insists. “I’m going to call Joe and Nicky and get you patched up, okay?”

A fat tear rolls back along Booker’s temple, but he doesn’t fight her again.

In the safety of her bedroom, Andy allows herself to break, at least for a moment. A choked-off sob punches out of her chest as she covers her mouth with one hand. Léa was gone and so were the boys and Booker was barely in one piece.

Everything was fucked and there was nothing she could do.

But she has to be strong. Booker needs her to be strong. So as much as she’s breaking inside, Andy pushes all of her heartbreak deep into the recesses of her soul and puts on a brave face before dialing Nicky’s number.

Nicky doesn’t answer, even though she calls four times, but Joe picks up on the first ring.

“Hey, Andy,” Joe mumbles exhaustedly, words slurred from sleep. “What d'you need? It’s like, 1am…”

“I need you and Nicky to get over here right now,” Andy says, trying to keep her voice from trembling. “Booker’s hurt pretty fucking bad and Léa took the fucking kids. He doesn’t know where they are and he’s fucking terrified. I’m fucking scared, Joe.”

There’s a long, heavy pause before Joe whispers, “She…she took the boys?”

“We need to go to the police, but we can’t when Booker can barely walk. He busted his face open and I think he’s got a concussion,” she says, saltwater creeping down the back of her throat. “But I need you guys here so Nicky can check him out and we can figure out what to do next.”

“I’m already getting dressed,” Joe says quickly. “I’ll make up some bullshit family emergency to get Nicky out of his shift. We’ll be there in twenty minutes.”

For what it’s worth, they get there in fifteen.

Nicky’s still wearing his scrubs and Joe’s in his pajamas, but they’re here. Nicky sinks to Andy’s side by the couch, eyes washing over the scrape on Booker’s swollen arm and his half-lidded eyes. “Hey, Booker,” he murmurs, forcing out a thin smile. “Can you tell me what happened?”

Booker looks at Andy, hesitating for a moment before he finally mumbles, “Léa and I were arguing. She pushed me. I…I fell down the stairs. Hit my head.” He scrubs a trembling hand over his face, smearing saltwater across his cheeks. “Don’t know how long I was out, but I—I woke up and she had taken the b-boys to the garage—to the car.” A sob catches in his chest and his breathing begins to quicken again.

Andy wraps a hand around his, promising, “Book, it’s okay…”

He shakes his head, choking, “It’s n-not! I—I tried to get her to g-give me Jean-Pierre, but she wouldn’t. They got—they got in the c-car and Léa locked the d-doors.” Booker’s body begins shaking again, that anxious panic setting in deep once more. “I tried—I tried to open the d-door—screamed at her to let the b-boys out…But she drove off, even when I w-wouldn’t let g-go…”

Nicky’s shoulders tense and Andy feels the ground drop out beneath her.

“That’s how you hurt your arm?” the Italian asks gently, pulling a pair of gloves on. “You got dragged by the car?”

“I need to get them b-back,” Booker grits, face pinching tight in pain as Nicky begins carefully cleaning the dirt and debris out of the scrape on his arm. “She’s going to—Andy, she’s going to—”

“Book, nothing is going to happen to your boys,” she promises, even though she knows the sentiment is hollow. For all she knows, Léa’s already gone and so are… No, she can’t keep thinking like this. If Andy’s going to see Booker through this, she has to focus on one thing at a time. “We’re going to find them, and everything will be okay.”

He looks at her like he doesn’t believe her, eyes bloodshot and unfocused, but keeps his silence, chewing on the inside of his swollen lip until it seeps fresh blood through his teeth.

Andy holds his hand the entire time it takes for Nicky to bandage and splint Booker’s arm but even when Joe pulls them both away, she's reluctant to let go.

"How is he?" Joe whispers, grip white around Booker’s phone.

Nicky peels off his gloves and runs a hand through his hair. "Andy was right. He definitely has a concussion, but I'm more concerned about his arm," the younger man murmurs, voice thick with worry. "Every time I tried to get Booker to move his wrist, he started guarding it more. I'm not sure if it's just a bad sprain or a fracture, but I can't know more without imaging."

Andy crosses her arms tight over her chest as she says, "He's barely even mentioned his arm, Nicky. You sure it's that bad?"

"I think it's a lot worse than he realizes because all Booker’s worried about is his boys. That adrenaline is going to wear off soon," Nicky says. "We really need to get him to a hospital. Get him an x-ray for his arm and a CT scan for his head, just to be sure."

"I'm glad you two are here, because he's not going to go willingly," she murmurs, voice tight. Andy's vision suddenly goes blurry with tears and she sniffs a little, looking away from Joe and Nicky to keep herself from breaking. "Fuck," she chokes, shaking her head a little. "We're going to have to get the cops involved, aren't we?"

"Andy, Léa still hasn't texted or called his phone. The boys are gone," Joe says, sounding just as anxious as she feels. But there's a determination in his eyes that Andy’s never seen before. "I know Booker’s scared of getting the police involved, but this has gone on far too long. We need to put a stop to it, even if he's not ready to do it himself."

Swallowing down another rush of panicked grief, Andy nods resolutely. "Then help me get him downstairs. We'll call the police when we get him in a hospital bed."

Chapter Text

Booker doesn't argue against going to the hospital as much as she expects him to—the splitting headache that erupts the second Joe and Nicky sit him back upright seeming to dampen any of the protests he may have had.

But he hasn't forgotten about his boys, not for a minute.

"An…Andy…" he slurs, brow pinched tight in pain as he presses the heel of his uninjured hand against his eye socket. "Léa…she doesn't—Émile needs—needs his nebulizer…"

"I know, Book," Andy murmurs, carefully stroking his head pillowed in her lap. "We're almost at the hospital. Then we can worry about your boys."

She can feel Joe’s eyes on them in the rearview mirror, watching her every move. Andy doesn't know if Booker’s told them about their relationship but, knowing how paranoid he was about Léa finding anything out, it's likely never been explicitly said. 

But that doesn't mean the suspicion isn't there.

Joe keeps his silence even as he and Nicky get Booker into a wheelchair—the older man shakily mumbling about how much his head hurts—and even through triage. He’s even gracious enough not to question them both once Nicky apologetically returns to his shift, leaving the three of them alone.

But it's the moment that comes after Booker all but refuses to let go of her hand before being wheeled down to Imaging that Andy knows Joe’s nagging intuition is too much to ignore.

"There's something going on between you two," he murmurs, staring at her pointedly over the rim of his shitty doctor's-lounge coffee. "I don't want to say it because Booker's married, but...I can see something's there." Andy doesn't react, doesn't even give Joe the satisfaction of looking up in surprise, but he seems to be able to read her thoughts anyway. "How long, Andy?"

She stares at a scuff on the tile floor, her heart sinking into her stomach, and whispers, "Six months."

There's a long, heavy silence before Joe says, "You know, I thought it would've been a lot longer than that."

An exhausted laugh punches out of her chest and Andy shakes her head, running a hand through her hair. "It was a long time coming, trust me. I think Booker was too scared to let it happen until the night he forgot his anniversary and Léa kicked him out."

"Was that the time she choked him?"

"One of them."

Joe sighs, mouth pressing into a thin line as he picks at the rim of his paper cup. "We should've gotten him out before it got this bad," he says quietly. "I don't know if I'll ever forgive myself for not doing more."

"It’s not your fault, Joe. Even if we could've gotten the boys out with Book, Léa would've called the cops and said he kidnapped them or something," Andy mutters bitterly. "Would've given herself a black eye just to make it more believable."

Silence falls again, nothing but the steady beeping of nearby machines and the drone of unintelligible conversation outside the open room door. Joe’s brow furrows as he scrubs a hand over his beard, seemingly lost in thought, and it’s minutes before he finally glances over at Andy. His voice is tight with worry, words hesitant, and there’s an undeniable weight on his face as he says, “Andy, I need you to be honest with me. Do you think Léa could actually hurt the boys?”

Andy blinks back tears, clenching her jaw. “I don’t know. I don’t even want to fucking think about that happening.”

“Jean-Pierre just had his first birthday two weeks ago,” Joe continues hollowly, mind still on the worst-case scenario. “Émile and Théo are what, two and four-and-a-half? How the hell are they supposed to get help if Léa does something?”

She wraps her hands around her knees, gripping so tight that her knuckles go white. There’s an incessant beeping noise nearby and Andy can’t fucking breathe. “Joe, stop it,” she snaps, glaring up at her friend. “The boys are going to be fine.”

“But we need to think about what we’re going to do if they’re not!” Joe barks, slamming the last of his coffee into the nearby trash can. “It’s going to be you, me, and Nicky putting Booker back together if that fucking bitch drives their car into the goddamn ocean!” Andy finches as he kicks the metal stool beside him, the metal clang ringing in her ears. Joe's face crumples—if only for a moment—as he comes back to his body, chest heaving. “We need to find those kids, Andy,” he croaks, looking at her desperately. "I don’t want to be there if someone has to tell Booker that their mother killed them."

“Then once he gets back, we need to make the call,” Andy says. “Booker needs to know what’s happening, but it’s getting done either way.”

They don’t talk about the boys again.

At least not for the next forty minutes, until the curtain rolls back and one of the nurses wheels Booker’s bed into the room. He's curled up on his side, face tucked into the crook of his elbow, but reaches for Andy's hand the moment he can.

"It's going to be about an hour before the results of the CT scan and x-rays come back, so just hang tight and press the call button if you need anything," the nurse says, hooking the lead wires back up to the monitors. She glances at Booker’s furrowed brow and screwed-shut eyes. "Would you like the lights turned down in here?"

Booker makes a small noise of affirmation, squeezing Andy’s fingers. Andy glances up at the nurse with a quick nod and says, "That would be great, thank you." The nurse nods and quickly dims the overhead lights before slipping back through the curtain. Andy strokes her thumb over Booker’s tight knuckles, leaning in close to murmur, “How are you feeling, Book? Any better?”

The furrow in his brow deepens and there’s a sharpness in Booker’s voice as he grits, “My head’s fucking killing me, and my goddamn kids are still missing. How the fuck do you think I’m feeling?”

She glances up at Joe, locking eyes with him, and knows they’re both regretting having to bring up this conversation now, with Booker frustrated and in pain. But every minute that passes without them taking action is another one that the boys are left in unknown danger.

Before Andy has to be the one to strike the blow, Joe takes a deep breath and says, “Booker, we need to talk about the boys. About what it’s going to take to get them back.”

Booker’s hand tightens even further around Andy’s as he shifts, stiffly looking over his shoulder. There’s undeniable fear in his eyes as he shakes his head. “Joe, please…”

“I know you’re scared. I know you’re worried about your record,” Joe continues, brow furrowing. “But we need to have the police out looking for Léa and the boys. They can find her a hell of a lot faster than we can, even if Andy and I left you alone here."

Booker's breathing stutters and he shakes his head again. "You…you can't call 'em," he chokes, quickly turning to Andy with desperation in his eyes. "Andy, please. Don't—don't do this. P-Please…"

As much as it's killing her inside, it has to happen. She loves those boys as much as Joe does—almost as much as Booker does— can't stand the thought of something happening to any of them. So she sets her jaw and says, "Book, we're calling them. It's not a discussion anymore. Joe and I are here for you, and I promise nothing is going to happen because you haven’t done anything wrong.”

A sharp sob punches out of his chest as Booker’s face suddenly crumples, something deeper and more sinister than mere heartbreak flooding over him. Something Andy’s seen before.

Shame.

There’s something more to the story. Something he‘s not telling her. Andy’s heart cracks straight down the middle as Booker pulls his hand free from hers, burying his face in his palm in a futile attempt to muffle his sobs.

The room feels like it closes in on them as she finally finds the strength to ask, “Booker…what did you do?”

His breath comes in double-time as he pulls away from her, shoulder shaking as he sobs, “I’m s-sorry…I didn’t—I d-didn’t m-mean to…”

Joe catches Andy’s gaze—clearly feeling that same, sinking worry that is taking over her body—and sits on the edge of the bed, cautiously putting a hand on Booker’s shoulder. "Whatever it is, we can—"

"I fucking hit her, okay?!" Booker suddenly shouts, turning on Joe in furious disgrace. Andy's blood runs cold as she watches a fresh tear cut down his cheek, and feels the missing piece of the puzzle appear before her. Booker buries his head in his knees, the words muffled as he croaks over and over and over again, "I h-hit her…I hit Léa…"

In all his years with her, Booker has never laid a hand on his wife. He’s taken all the abuse without raising a finger to fight back because there was too much against him if he did.

It just…doesn’t make sense.

Andy’s frozen in place—unable to move, unable to breathe. Even Joe pales, his mouth falling open in confusion. He shakes his head, hand falling from Booker’s shoulder as he asks, "You didn’t—you didn't hit her first, did you?"

"Of course I didn't!" Booker chokes, betrayal laced deep into the worry lines of his face as he wipes his eyes with a trembling hand. "I j-just–" He lets out a shaky exhale and closes his eyes. "She had already seen a text from Andy…one I forgot…and she just blew up. She wouldn't stop hitting me. Finally, Léa said that if I replaced her this easily, I shouldn't have a problem replacing the boys 'unless that whore I fucked was already dried up.'"

The words hit Andy like a punch straight to the throat and she can’t imagine hearing them in the heat of the moment.

"I just lost it," Booker croaks, face flushed and ears burning. "I didn't realize I slapped her until after it happened, and I immediately regretted it." He finally looks up, meeting her eyes so hesitantly that—for a painful moment—all Andy can see is the beat dog Léa had turned him into. "I swear, I didn't m-mean to…"

She nods numbly, leaning forward enough to curl her hand around the back of Booker’s neck. It doesn’t even matter that Joe’s sitting right beside them. There could be a thousand people in the room and it still feels like they’re the only ones in it as the younger man averts his eyes and turns his back on them in silence. Everything else fades out the moment Andy kisses Booker gently—the trembling in the blond’s body easing into nothing more than a shudder. 

“I believe you,” she whispers against Booker’s lips. “I believe you, Sébastien…”

A defeated sob catches in his chest like he never expected to still be trusted.

After all these years of suffering in silence, after so much pain, Booker had finally made a stand. Not even for himself, but for Andy and the assumption that he would ever want to replace his sons. And here he was, still groveling for her love like he could have ever lost it in the first place.

“This wasn’t your fault,” Andy promises, combing her fingers through Booker’s hair. “It never has been. We’re going to get through this, understand? We’re all on your side.”

Booker fumbles for her hand like a lifeline in a storm, and seemingly can’t find words enough to answer. He just nods, letting Andy wrap herself around him, and buries himself in the safe harbor of her body.

~~~~~

Joe has the decency to step out of the hospital room to make the call to the police, but it still doesn’t feel real until two officers show up. 

"Monsieur Le Livre?" the older of the two men says as Joe follows the officers in and pulls the curtain back across the doorway. "My name is Capitaine Blanchet, and this is Lieutenant Dupont. We received a call about a domestic dispute and possible kidnapping. Are you able to give us some more details?"

Booker glances at Andy nervously, fingers inching toward her hand for a split second before he pulls them back quickly. He looks up at the officers, face paling, and nods shakily. “My…my wife has a history of getting violent when she’s angry or upset,” Booker mumbles, fist clenching in the sheets. “It’s been—it’s been happening for most of our marriage, but it’s gotten worse in the last few years.” A shuddering breath punches out of his chest as a tear cuts down his cheek. “S-She…She started a fight and pushed me down the stairs. I passed out and woke up to her putting our sons in the car. I...I tried to stop her, but she left anyway.”

Captain Blanchet pauses for a moment, eyes washing over the bruises on Booker’s face and the splint on his arm before glancing at his partner. "How old are your children?" he asks, pulling out a small notepad and pen.

"Théo is four-and-a-half, Émile is two, and Jean-Pierre just turned one," Booker says, twisting the fabric to keep his hand from shaking.

"And you believe your children to be in immediate danger? Is there any way your wife could have taken them to a family member's house?"

Booker shakes his head, unable to get the words out. He presses the heel of his uninjured hand to his eye socket and forces his breathing steady. "She—she's never taken the kids before…" he croaks weakly. "My wife has always left them alone, but this time is different. I'm scared she'll…" Booker's voice breaks and he falls silent, unable to say the words out loud.

The two officers share a grave look before Captain Blanchet leans in close to his partner and whispers something in Lieutenant Dupont's ear. The younger of the two men nods and steps out quickly before Blanchet looks at Andy and Joe. "I'm going to need you two to step out of the room so I can speak to Monsieur Le Livre privately for a moment," he says bluntly. "I'll need to take your statements afterward."

Andy nods, pushing herself up from her chair. Her legs feel numb and there's a weight on her chest that feels even heavier as she offers Booker one last reassuring smile before following Joe out of the room.

But there's still that tightness in her throat as they sit in the far corner of the waiting room, Andy bouncing her leg to keep the anxiety at bay.

"You okay there?" Joe asks quietly, knocking their toes together.

She shakes her head, picking at the skin around her nails. Andy’s heart creeps up her throat, leaving her barely able to draw a single breath. “I just…I can’t stop thinking about the fact that I might be the one to fuck this whole thing up,” she mumbles dejectedly. “I know the moment Booker has to tell Blanchet that we’re together, he’s going to look like the bad guy. Like it somehow gives Léa an excuse to take the boys.”

Joe lets out a heavy sigh and offers her a tired smile. “With the way she’s been escalating over the last couple of years after Booker got out, something like this would have happened anyway—even if you weren’t together. You didn’t do anything wrong, Andy,” he says gently. “You and Booker deserved a little bit of happiness.”

But it’s not going to last. That’s the part that’s killing her.

“It’s all over, Joe,” Andy says, trying not to show how much she’s breaking inside. “Even if they find Léa and the boys and they’re all fine, it’s never going to be okay again—not like it used to be.” She flinches as she picks open her cuticle, blood flowing to the bed of her thumbnail, and crosses her arms over her chest to hide the self-inflicted injury. 

But Joe seems to catch the sight of blood anyway and puts a hand on her knee. “Andy…”

“If Léa just took the kids to a hotel or something and finds out Booker called the cops, she’s going to send him back to prison,” she continues hollowly. “If she doesn’t and they’re all still okay, she’s never going to let him see the boys again.” The ache in her chest spreads at the unimaginable and, when Andy looks up at Joe, he’s blurry around the edges and all she can taste is saltwater. “And if Léa or the boys aren’t okay, I don’t know what I’m going to do, Joe. I love Book and I love those fucking kids, but, fuck, every way I look at it, we’re going to lose.”

The circles under Joe’s eyes seem even darker as he reaches out for her, wrapping one arm around Andy’s shoulder and pulling her close. Her head drops onto his shoulder as the exhaustion—mental, physical, emotional—seems to catch up with her.

She can hear Joe’s steady breathing, can feel the warmth of his body seep into hers, and closes her eyes as he combs his fingers through her hair. “I know it’s a lose-lose situation,” he murmurs, “but as long as the boys are okay, we can figure everything else out. Even if—shit—even if Booker has to go back, we’ll be there like we were last time.”

“Do you fucking remember what it was like when he was in prison?” Andy chokes. “I got that first call from him telling us he got arrested and then it was like Booker fucking died or something.”

Two years of nothing but letters. Two years of sending money. Two years of watching Théo grow up without even getting to see his father once. Andy didn’t even get a chance to visit or even hear Booker’s voice for two goddamn years until they picked him up from prison and she finally got to hold him again.

It wasn’t enough then and it’s going to eat her alive if she has to suffer through it again now.

“I can’t do it again, Joe,” she whispers. “Booker can’t do it again.” A single tear tracks down her temple, soaking into Joe’s shirt, and Andy feels her friend’s grip tighten around her. “I just want this all to be over.”

Joe presses a kiss to the top of her head. “It will be soon. One way or another.”

Chapter Text

"Andy?"

She blinks out of the daze she's in, looking over at Joe tiredly. It’s been almost an hour and a half since they had been sequestered out to the waiting room but her mind is still back in the room with Booker. "Sorry, what'd you say?"

He waves his phone a little and repeats, "Update from Nicky. No skull fracture or brain bleed, but Booker’s concussion is still pretty bad. He does have a couple fractures in his wrist but it sounds like they don't want to put him under for surgery right now. Gonna stick a cast on later and hope for the best."

"Does he know if Blachet is still with Book?" Andy asks, shifting in her chair as her back cracks uncomfortably.

Joe shakes his head as his phone dings again. He swipes open the message, reading it quickly before he says, "They brought in a forensic nurse to document injuries though. Found a couple healed fractures in the x-rays of his hands and ribs, so maybe that's—"

His voice cuts off as his phone starts buzzing continuously—the same, steady alert erupting on Andy's phone, as well as on the cellphones of everyone else in the waiting room.

A faint alarm blares on the television across the room, and Andy doesn't even need to check her phone to know what's happening the moment she sees Théo, Émile, and Jean-Pierre's tiny, smiling faces appear on the screen.

This was real. This was happening.

"They finally issued the Alerte Enlèvement…" she whispers, staring at the boys’ faces and, God, they look so fucking small up there. Andy remembers getting to meet little Théo at Joe and Nicky’s house, remembers holding Émile and Jean-Pierre in the hospital after they were born, remembers every birthday party and zoo trip and every afternoon she was able to spend with them.

Fuck, what she would give for just one more inconsequential day—watching a movie with the boys tucked between her and Booker on the couch, Jean-Pierre asleep on her chest.

“Madame Mávros?” 

Andy tears her eyes away from the TV to find Captain Blanchet standing in the doorway of the waiting room, notepad in hand, and looking at her expectantly. Her throat goes dry and her hand clenches around her phone as she murmurs, “Yes?”

“Can you please come with me?” Blanchet asks, motioning to her with a beckoning wave of his hand. “Monsieur al-Kaysani, I’ll be back to speak with you again shortly.”

She pushes herself up out of the chair and is honestly surprised her legs don’t give out from underneath her the moment she stands. She’s still gripping her phone hard enough that the edges of the case dig into the palm of her hand and that frantic drumming heartbeat in her chest doesn’t let up, even as she follows the grey-haired police officer down the hall and into a small room with a table and two chairs.

Captain Blanchet sits in one of the chairs and motions for her to take the chair opposite him before pulling out a small digital recorder. He presses a button, a small red light appearing on the device, and offers Andy a curt nod as she sits. 

“Thank you for agreeing to meet with me, madame,” Blanchet says. “Would you please state your full name, please?”

Swallowing down the heart-shaped lump in her throat, she leans forward and says, “Andromache Mávros. Everyone calls me Andy, though.”

“How do you know Sébastien Le Livre and Léa Allard? I’d like to know how long you’ve been acquainted with them as well.”

God, all of this has been going on so long that she’s barely even had time to think about the way it had all begun. Andy stares at that little red light for a moment before shrugging a little. “I think I met Book—ummm, sorry, Sébastien—eight years ago now,” she murmurs. “I was working with Joe al-Kaysani at some marketing company when Joe invited me to his birthday party. I had heard him talk about Sébastien as his friend from university, but I had never met him until that night. He and I became pretty close friends after that.”

Captain Blanchet flips through his notebook for a moment before looking back up at Andy. “Had Sébastien and Léa begun their relationship yet?” he asks, clicking his pen open. “Sébastien mentioned that they had been married for five years but not when they first met.”

“No, they started dating about six months after Joe’s party.” The officer’s mouth opens and Andy cuts him off with a quick, “And no, before you ask, I don’t know how they met. It’s kind of funny—after all these years, Sébastien never told me how they even ended up together and I never bothered to ask. Part of me never cared because what came after was so bad.”

The words come out so sharp that it makes Blanchet pause for a moment. Andy keeps her shoulders squared, jaw clenched, as he studies her body language. “Madame Mávros,” he starts, leaning forward to rest his elbows on the table, “I’d like for you to tell me everything you know about the abuse alleged by Sébastien Le Livre against his wife. When you learned of it and what you’ve seen of it—if anything at all.”

Andy thinks about Booker and the way he had begged her not to go to the cops for years, thinks about Théo and Émile and Jean-Pierre’s faces on that TV, thinks about the fleeting moments of happiness Léa had stolen from their future.

She had promised Joe and Nicky that they would end this sick, ugly cycle once and for all.

But that didn’t mean she wasn’t fucking terrified at what was going to come next.

“We started noticing changes in Sébastien about a year into his relationship with Léa,” Andy says, closing her eyes. “I think it started before that, though—in some way. Léa began to come every time we invited Sébastien out. She never left him alone. He began to pull away emotionally and always seemed on edge when we were together. Then the injuries started coming.”

“Injuries like the ones he sustained today?”

She shakes her head. “No, they started small. Bruises on his arms. Scratches. Sébastien would make excuses, saying he got roughed up playing football or ran into the car door or shit like that.” Her thumbnail throbs as she begins picking at it again, but the ache is a welcome distraction as she says, “But then he showed up to dinner one night with a black eye, a split lip, and Léa on his arm, and pretended like nothing was wrong. Joe and I couldn’t even ask him about it until she ended up going to the bathroom and all Sébastien said was, ‘It was an accident’ and that ‘she didn’t mean to do it.’”

Captain Blanchet furrows his brow and pauses for a moment as if he was trying to decide which question to ask next. When he finally opens his mouth again, Andy’s not surprised by what comes out.

“Did Sébastien ever try to leave Madame Allard before the wedding?” he asks bluntly. “It seems like nearly three years is a long time for there to be abuse going on—and those closest to him knowing about it—for Monsieur Le Livre to go through with the marriage.”

Her blood burns hot with anger, skin prickling as Andy clenches her hands into fists. “It wasn’t his fault he got stuck in this fucking situation, Capitaine Blanchet,” she snarls.

The captain raises his hand, trying to placate her. “Madame Mávros, that’s not what I said.”

“It’s what you fucking implied, isn’t it?” Andy spits back. “Booker knew he should leave—that his relationship was only going to get worse—and we all tried to convince him to leave Léa, but he did love her—at least at the beginning.”

She had lost count of how many interventions they had to try and get Booker out before the wedding, but they had always ended the same way. ‘I love her and she loves me. Why can’t you let me be fucking happy with someone?’ It didn’t matter that he wasn’t happy or that Léa beat the shit out of him on a terrifyingly regular basis—Booker loved her and the high of being loved in return was worth everything he had to endure to get it.

“If Sébastien was just a meter sixty-five and fifty-five kilos like Léa is, you wouldn’t be asking why he didn’t just leave,” Andy continues, the brokenhearted frustration building in her chest. “If he was a woman, you would understand, wouldn’t you?”

Captain Blanchet sets his jaw but doesn’t dispute the accusation.

“We tried to get him to leave,” she insists. “If Joe’s husband Nicky hadn’t been in medical school at the time, I’m not sure what we would’ve done.” Andy folds her arms tight over her chest, blinking back the first threat of tears. “But over the years, it got so fucking bad that Sébastien did start to get cold feet. We all thought this would finally be it.”

“But?”

She shakes her head and swallows thickly, the words tight in her throat. “But then three months from the wedding, Léa just…stopped. It was like she had actually gotten scared that she was going to lose Sébastien for good and decided to change.” 

Tears well up in her eyes as Andy remembers the wedding and how happy Booker had looked, and how much unrealized jealousy she had buried in her chest as she had tried not to let it show on her face. 

“But it was all a fucking lie,” Andy spits bitterly, the first trickle of saltwater spilling down her cheek. “They left on their honeymoon and everything blew up in Sébastien’s face, and he was too far away for us to help.”

Blanchet scrubs a hand over his mouth and sighs. “Can you tell me what you know of the honeymoon?” he asks. “Monsieur Le Livre had spoken of it but was unable to give details at this time.”

Andy nods, tipping her gaze up to the lights as she takes a minute to pull herself together. “Everything had been fine for the first few days,” she says before closing her eyes. “But then Sébastien and Léa were coming back from dinner to the bungalow they were renting, and I guess Léa had too much to drink. Some girl was moving luggage into the place next to them and Sébastien helped her get her suitcase up the stairs.

“Léa apparently just watched him without saying anything until they got back to their place and she just lost her shit. She began throwing whatever she could find—shoes, lamps, chairs—and wouldn’t stop screaming at him. She said that Sébastien was trying to hit on that girl, even though he was just trying to help.”

Even five and a half years ago, that night was still clear as day in her memory.

“Once Léa got her hands on him, she did whatever she could to hurt him like she said Sébastien hurt her. Scratched him. Hit him. Kicked him so hard that she broke two fucking ribs,” Andy says, and it’s more of a struggle than it should be to keep her voice even. “It was the first time she gave him a concussion and the first time she broke his nose. And it went on for hours.”

By the look on Blanchet’s silently stunned face, he’s starting to get it. It’s starting to sink in. He’s starting to understand what kind of hell they’ve been living for years.

“By the time Sébastien finally managed to get away from her, the only safe place he could find was locking himself in the bathroom.” She lets out a shaky exhale and quickly wipes her eyes before looking at the officer desperately. “I don’t know if you’ve had someone you love call you in the middle of the night, sobbing and begging for help that you can’t give, while their spouse of one fucking week is trying to kick the door down, but it’s enough to break your fucking soul apart," she says, voice cracking alongside her heart. "I've never felt so fucking helpless."

Andy pulls her phone out of the back pocket of her jeans and opens up the file in her photo album, swiping up until she finds the picture Booker had sent from his honeymoon after that blow-up and sets it on the table for Blanchet to see.

Booker’s entire face is nearly black and blue, eyes swollen from both the crying he had done and the beating he suffered, and the scratches down his neck and chest are still raw and weeping blood. Andy swipes through a few more pictures from that incident—one of Booker’s bruised chest, one of the cuts on the palms of his hands and arms, one of the blood and missing hair on his scalp—and feels her stomach creeping back up her throat.

“This is what she did to him just that night, Capitaine,” she mumbles, unable to tear her gaze away from the phone screen. “It was so bad that Sébastien had to push the flight home back because he couldn’t fly with the concussion Léa gave him. It finally felt like the wakeup call to leave that he needed, but by the time we had an exit plan and Léa had cooled down enough for him to get out, we found out she was pregnant and Sébastien just lost it.”

“This was what led to his arrest, correct?”

Andy’s heart stops dead in her chest as she looks up at Captain Blanchet. She doesn’t know how much he knows about Booker’s arrest and conviction, but Andy doesn’t want to say the wrong thing and make things worse than they already are.

So she keeps her silence.

Captain Blanchet sighs before reaching out a hand to press the button on the recorder once more. Andy stares at the blinking red light, unable to move, unable to breathe as he says, "Andromache, I'm going to be honest with you because you've been extremely forthcoming with me. Monsieur Le Livre was truthful about his arrest and conviction, which is one of the reasons I'm inclined to believe that he is not the guilty party in this."

There's an earnestness in the officer's voice that she wants to trust so badly, but it's just like Booker had always said—how the hell is anyone supposed to believe him?

"But if you want to help him," Blanchet continues, his dark grey eyes staring her down solemnly, "then I need your statement on Sébastien’s arrest. The more of his story I can corroborate, the more it will be believed when we find Léa Allard and bring her to justice."

When—not if. Andy doesn't miss the clear choice of words.

So she lets out the breath she had been holding and lets Blanchet press the record button once more.

"Three months after Sébastien and Léa got married, she told him she was pregnant. She had known for a month and a half and was waiting to get an ultrasound for proof," Andy says through gritted teeth, unable to hold back her anger any longer. “Sébastien was at my house when he got the call and he just…”

Her stomach churns, that invisible knife twisting deeper into her chest as she remembers the way Booker’s face had fallen when Léa called—all of the light leaving his eyes in a single, horrible second. As helpless as Andy feels now, it’s nothing compared to how she felt that night five years ago when they first realized any escape plan for Booker was useless.

“He just shut down,” she finally says. “We both knew that he was tied to Léa permanently, now that she was pregnant. It broke him. Sébastien just sat there, staring at the wall, before he got up and said he had to leave.” Andy runs a hand through her hair and sighs. “I tried to get him to stay, tried not to let him go when he was like that, but I couldn’t stop him.”

She’ll never say it out loud, but if she hadn’t let Booker leave, none of this would’ve happened.

“I went out looking for him, worried he might honestly try and kill himself, but eventually got a call at two-thirty that morning from Sébastien, saying that he had been arrested and he needed me to call a lawyer. I found out later that he had gotten blackout drunk and gotten into a bar fight.” Andy glances at Blanchet before turning away to stare at a spot on the wall, beginning to bounce her leg anxiously. “Everything in Sébastien’s life was crumbling around him and he just lost it. Started hitting the guy and couldn't stop. Put him in the hospital for a week.”

There are a thousand questions in Captain Blanchet's voice but only one comes out as he asks, "He called you after his arrest? Not his wife?"

Andy shakes her head. "No, he knew how much I was worried about him and wanted me to know what had happened. Wanted me to know he was sorry. That phone call was…" A sharp breath punches out of her chest and a blistering tear burns its way down her flushed cheeks. "That call was the last time I got to talk to Sébastien until he got out of prison. Léa never took a single fucking one of his calls while he was incarcerated. I just—"

Her voice cracks before she goes silent again, that burning regret comes boiling up her throat in waves of saltwater.

"I need you to understand that what happened that night was a mistake, Capitaine Blanchet," Andy croaks, desperately clinging to any bit of strength she has in her body. She can’t break—not now. "Sébastien had never gotten into a fight until that night and never tried to avoid taking responsibility for what he did. He didn’t even try to run when he finally realized what he was doing and stopped. The cops found him just sitting on the curb watching the SMUR unit working on the man he hurt. He could have left but he didn't."

"Madame Mávros, I—"

"Sébastien is not a violent person," she insists. “He’s a great friend. A wonderful father. He is a good man and I need you to know that.”

Blanchet nods and murmurs, "I understand."

"He missed the birth of his first son, Théo because of that night. He was alone for two years because of what he did." She closes her eyes and buries her head in her hands. "That one night gave Léa every excuse she needed to justify all the abuse and the biggest threat of all—that she could say he hit her and he would get sent back to prison because of the assault already on his record.”

The system was against Booker and they all knew it. Booker and Andy had known it all along and Captain Blanchet was beginning to realize how complicit he was in all of this. All the lies, all the abuse, all the secrets, all the pain. It could’ve been so easily avoided.

“I know what he—what we did together wasn’t right, but I’m not going to apologize for it, Capitaine,” Andy says, another tear tracking down her cheek. “Léa put Sébastien through hell and she’s still doing it, even right now. He loves those boys more than anything in the world and Léa knew exactly what she was doing by taking them.”

“So you believe Théo, Émile, and Jean-Pierre are in danger with their mother?”

She looks up, meeting Captain Blanchet’s eyes with exhausted resignation. “I believe that if Léa thinks that hurting them is the last chance she’ll get to hurt Sébastien, she will. I hope I’m wrong, but I’ve seen what she can do to a grown man. I don’t want to find out what she can do to three little boys.”

Chapter Text

Her head is still pounding by the time Blanchet finally excuses her.

He had asked about everything from the first time she had kissed Booker to the last time Andy remembers speaking to Léa. About Andy’s relationship with the boys and if they had ever seen any of the violence that went on inside the home. 

But more than anything, he had asked her to recount every instance of abuse she could.

There were so many stories to share, so many pictures to show, and, for every single incident she can remember, Andy knows that there are a dozen more that Booker never told her about. More injuries that he had simply patched back together in the confines of his bathroom at home when he couldn’t come to her or Nicky and Joe.

Almost two hours of being interviewed and she still feels like they just scratched the surface.

But the entire walk back to Booker's room, all Andy can really think about is the fact that it’s been nearly five hours since the boys went missing and there's still no sign of them.

She knows the statistics.

Most kids who aren't found within three hours aren't found alive. Being taken by a parent with a history of violence only worsens those chances. Every time she passes by a TV, the L'Alerte Enlèvement is still on-screen, which is only the slightest reassurance. As long as it’s up, it means there haven't been three tiny bodies found on the shoreline yet.

That doesn't mean that Andy isn't praying for what might be the first time in her life.

She’s never been a believer, not really, but if it means the boys might come home to Booker safe and sound, then she’ll keep on repeating the same silent prayers in her head.

But all those worries disappear the moment she slips through the curtain and sees the look of relief that floods over Booker’s face. “Andy,” he whispers breathlessly, her name full of devotion. “You came back.” His swollen eyes go glassy as a sharp breath punches out of his chest. “You were gone so long, I thought you…thought you might have—”

“I’m not leaving, Book,” Andy murmurs, returning to her rightful place in the chair at his bedside and lacing their fingers together. “It’s you and me, now and always.”

Booker pulls their entwined hands to his lips, kissing the back of her knuckles gently, and, God, even now, Andy is so in love with him that it hurts. Sometimes she wishes it had all been easier for both of them, but she wouldn’t trade it for the world, especially now that they’re finally allowed to have each other.

The peaceful moment is cut short by a gentle knock on the door. Booker quickly pulls his hand free as they both look up, fully expecting another doctor or police officer, but a flood of relief rushes through Andy when she sees Nicky’s familiar face.

The younger man offers a smile, raising a cardboard drink carrier full of coffee. “I figured you both could use a pick me up from somewhere far better than the hospital cafeteria,” Nicky says, handing Andy one of the cups before setting Booker’s on the bedside tray table and looking at the other man worriedly. “Are you doing okay, Booker?”

Booker just shrugs, wincing a little as he shifts upright and reaches for the cup. “Been better,” he mumbles dryly, not quite looking Nicky in the eye. “Could be worse though—could be my honeymoon all over again.”

“Capitaine Blanchet asked me about that night, you know,” Andy says, unsurprised when Booker tenses a little.

“And you told him everything?” Nicky asks, brow furrowing.

“Booker gave him most of the story—I just filled in the blanks.” Andy watches Booker stare a hole into the lid of his cup and offers him a reassuring half-smile. “I think he realized how bad it was for you, Book. Once he saw the pictures, it finally sunk in.”

It’s quiet for a moment before Booker finally mumbles, “I’m glad you took ‘em. Should’ve seen the look on his face when he asked why I didn’t just leave when I realized I wanted to be with…” He pauses, realizing what he almost said, and his eyes flit toward Nicky as his ears turn a hot, burning red.

“Joe told me,” the Italian murmurs. “About you and Andy.” A soft look washes over his face as Nicky puts a gentle hand on Booker’s knee. “I’m happy for you two—really. You deserve something good for once.” 

Booker doesn’t move, doesn’t say anything. Just stares at his lap and grips the disposable cup hard enough to turn his knuckles white. The heart monitor beeps away steadily, even as his blood pressure cuff hisses loud enough to cut the silence.

And then…

“It doesn’t fucking feel like it, not right now.” Booker’s voice is quiet and hollow and Andy would be a fucking liar if she said her heart didn’t crumble a little when his shoulders curl away from her. “Andy’s the best thing that’s happened to me, aside from my boys, but you…you should’ve seen the way he fucking looked at me.” Booker presses the heel of his hand to his eye socket, swallowing back a shaky groan before mumbling, “How disgusting I was for cheating on my wife. How pathetic I was for— mmphfuck —for being fucking scared of her…”

Nicky’s face falls as he meets Andy’s gaze before looking at his friend. “Booker, you know none of that is true,” he murmurs, pulling the stool to the other side of the hospital bed. “There’s only one person that’s done anything wrong and it’s not you.”

Booker shakes his head, hand still pressed tight against his face, and breathes shallowly through gritted teeth as the heart monitor starts beeping faster and faster. “Should’ve…should’ve left when I…when I didn’t…” he mumbles, words starting to slur a little as his face goes pale. 

“Babe,” Andy says, quickly standing and wrapping a steady hand around Booker’s wrist. “Hey, baby, you need to look at me.” Nicky’s already reaching for the call button but all she can focus on is her boyfriend’s trembling body. “Booker, babe, you need to breathe.”

“Wanted to…should’ve killed m’self—Émile had—prison when I…” Booker’s unintelligible words die in his throat as a weak sob punches out of his chest. “Andy,” he whimpers feebly, “m’fucking head…”

“I know, I know,” she whispers, the bridge of her nose pressed against his temple before looking up at Nicky. “What the hell is wrong with him, Nicky? He was fine a minute ago!”

“He’s got a concussion, Andy,” the Italian snaps quietly, pressing the call button again before moving the tray table away from the bed. “A pretty severe one, too. Stress can trigger headaches and make symptoms worse.”

Two nurses suddenly appear in the doorway but stop dead when they see Nicky. “Oh, N—Doctor…” one of them says, glancing between the three of them. “I thought you weren’t going to be trea—”

“I’m on my break, Chaunette,” Nicky says. “This was just a personal visit. I need one of you to grab a doctor. He had another headache spike and needs a low dose of Ativan before he ends up triggering a full-blown panic attack.” He reaches across Booker, adjusting the bed to lie flat and carefully rolling the older man onto his right side. “I don’t want to check his chart, but if he’s able to get another dose of pain meds, those should be ordered too.”

The nurses nod, one of them darting back out the door while the other joins Nicky at Booker’s bedside. They flow with practiced ease, the conversation turning into medical jargon that Andy quickly tunes out as her focus turns back to Booker.

His fingers shake, sobbing breaths hitching his shoulders, and he can’t even open his eyes to look at her when Andy presses a kiss to his forehead. “Booker, I know it hurts, but we’re here to take care of you,” she murmurs. “I want you to focus on my voice and just breathe. Just hold my hand and don’t let go.”

Booker fumbles for her hand, squeezing hard enough to make her joints crack. He mumbles out a weak sound that may well be her name, too incoherent for Andy to be sure, as Booker buries his face in the palm of her hand.

“I’ve got you.” Andy feels her voice crack, vision going blurry as exhausted tears rise in her eyes. “I’ve got you, Book.”

“Andy…” She flinches when Nicky touches her shoulder gently. “Andy, we need access to his IV,” he says, crouching at her side with a furrowed brow. “It’d be better if you wait outside until we can—”

“I’m not leaving him,” Andy chokes, unable to look away from Booker.

“Just until—”

“I’m not fucking leaving him!” she shouts, the room closing in on her as Nicky stumbles back. As much as Andy despises how weak it makes her look, she can’t stop the furious tears that spill down her cheeks. She’s too tired to stop them, both mentally and physically, but she hates it all the same. “I’m not leaving him,” Andy repeats, voice trembling. "Not again."

Nicky sighs, giving her a desperate look before running a hand through his hair. “Okay, you can stay, but I need you to let everyone do their jobs,” he says, stepping back against the wall to make space for a nurse.

Andy sniffs, setting her jaw and quickly wiping her eyes with one hand before easing Booker’s arm straight just enough for the nurse to reach his IV port. 

Nicky gives her a silent look of, ‘Thank you,’ before murmuring, “I have to go, but I’ll be back soon. Text me with updates if you get them, or have Joe do it when he gets done.” Andy nods mutely closing her eyes when Nicky leans down to kiss the top of her head. “We’ll get through this, Andy. Have faith.”

Every promise is starting to feel hollow but she tries to believe Nicky all the same.

~~~

The steady beep of the heart monitor turns into a lull as the nurses and doctors finally leave and silence falls on them again.

It had taken far too long for the medicine to kick in and Andy’s stomach is still churning at the memory of Booker sobbing into her hands as everyone tried to work around her.

Tonight has stolen so much from both of them.

Even now, even when it's quiet, there's no peace.

Booker stares numbly at the wall—bloodshot eyes dazed and empty—as Andy smoothes her palm over his hair, the repetitive motion the only thing keeping her awake. She’s not sure how he hasn't fallen asleep from the sheer weight of the world on his shoulders and the sedatives he’s been given, but Andy also knows that Booker won’t find rest until his boys are found.

“You know what I was thinking about today, Book? After Capitaine Blanchet asked about it in my interview?” she muses quietly, almost to herself. “The day you got released from prison.”

There’s no response from Booker, not even a glance in her direction. He just keeps staring into the distance like he’s trying to see straight through the walls of the hospital to wherever his sons are.

“I remember not sleeping at all the night before because I was so anxious to see you. I kept pacing in the kitchen because I had all those pictures of us on the fridge and I was scared I wasn’t going to recognize you after not being allowed to see you for two whole years.” Andy’s hand pauses for a moment as she swallows back the lump in her throat. “God, while you were in there, I missed you so fucking much.”

Finally—finally—Booker lets out the breath he had been holding and his gaze tips up to look at her. “Andy…”

“The letters weren’t enough and all I wanted was to see your face again,” she says, leaning down to pillow her chin on the edge of the bed. “I knew how much I missed you, but I don’t think I could admit to myself that I loved you until I saw you walk out to meet us.”

Booker’s eyes wash over her face, that ardent devotion reflecting back in his irises. “You, Joe, and Nicky came,” he croaks dryly, a tear pooling in the inner corner of his eye. “I kept expecting Léa, but I was so relieved it was you and not her.”

A smile tugs on Andy’s lips. “I can’t remember what you said to me or what I said to you, but, God, I can’t forget how hard you hugged me. I just held you and held you and couldn’t bear to let you go.” She reaches down and laces their fingers together, squeezing tight as she says, “Even up until tonight, I hated letting you go every time you had to go home.”

“I never wanted to drag you into my shit, Andy,” Booker whispers, looking more exhausted than ever. “It should never have been your responsibility—patching me up, calling the cops, Léa, the boys, none of it.” He shakes his head weakly and closes his eyes. “I’m sorry that you got stuck with someone so fucking broken.”

She lets out a heavy sigh before leaning in to kiss Booker gently, hoping that any doubt he has in their relationship washes away as quickly as it came.

“You’re not broken,” Andy murmurs against his lips as she squeezes his hand once more. “Not any more than I am. And I would much rather be here with you, even in all this chaos, than be anywhere else without you.”

Booker carefully raises his injured arm, wincing slightly as he straightens two of his fingers just enough to tuck her hair back behind her ears. His mouth opens and closes for a moment—like he’s trying not to say the thought in his mind—but whatever’s weighing heavily on his chest seems too much to bear as Booker takes a deep breath.

“When all of this is over…” he starts, hesitantly—as if still trying to find the courage. “When they find my boys and if…if I can finally get away from Léa…Andy, will you marry me?”

Andy’s heart skips a beat and a sharp exhale punches out of her chest. “What?”

“I want to know what it’s like to be married to someone who loves me,” Booker says, his brow pinching together in tender desperation. “I want to know what it’s like to hold you at night, Andromache.” His trembling fingers trace the line of her jaw, lingering at that perfect, sacred space below her chin. “I want to know what it’s like to love you like I wish I could’ve loved you all these years.”

Her vision goes blurry with tears as she nods, whispering, "Yeah—when all of this is over, I'll marry you."

A heavy breath of relief spills from Booker’s lips and his grip on Andy's hand tightens just a little more than before. But that anxious fear is still ever present in his voice as he croaks, "It might…you know it might be a while before we can. She’s…" Booker's face crumples in despair for a brief moment before he forces himself back together. "Léa’s not going to let me go without a fight."

She's not stupid.

Even if they got a lawyer today, it could still take years before Booker’s divorce was finalized. Léa had taken almost a decade of happiness from Booker and, now that Andy was involved, she was going to dig her claws in and tear away any last shred of hope that she could.

"I've waited this long," Andy murmurs, kissing Booker again in a vain attempt to put both their minds at ease. "I can wait a little longer."

Chapter Text

Andy watches the minutes tick by on the clock but refuses to look at her phone to see if the inevitable has happened.

The moment the Alerte Enlèvement had been triggered, they were in a race against time. The police would only broadcast the alert for three hours—whether the boys were found or not. The news networks could keep the information up, but there would be far fewer eyes with the Amber alert down.

She refuses to look at her phone to see if the alert was still up but the moment the clock hits 7am, then 8am, the hope in Andy’s body begins to seep out of her body like blood from an open wound.

But by the time Joe finally comes back at almost 9, hair damp and finally changed out of his pajamas, Andy can barely look at him without feeling herself break. “Sorry I was gone so long. I really needed a shower and new clothes,” Joe says, rubbing at his eyes exhaustedly. “Where’s Booker?”

She shakes her head, unable to simply say that Booker had been taken for another imaging scan after a particularly bad headache, and startles when she feels a hand on her shoulder. 

“Andy, are you okay?”

The room spins as Andy looks up at Joe, guilt flooding up her throat when she sees the unmistakable concern in his wide eyes. She tries to force out a smile but it never quite gets there—her chin wobbling as she sucks in a shuddering breath. “I’m fine, Joe. Really.”

“Have you had anything to eat or drink since we got to the hospital?” he asks gently, crouching at Andy’s side. “Even Nicky went home to shower and take a quick nap. I can stay here and wait for Booker if you want to—”

“I’m not leaving,” Andy croaks, saltwater creeping up the back of her throat. “I told Booker I wouldn’t leave.”

Joe sighs, taking in the dark circles under her eyes and the tremble in her voice. They’re both running on empty—Andy’s more than aware of that—but, as selfish as it sounds, her exhaustion may run deeper. “You need to take care of yourself too, Andy,” he murmurs. “When we find the boys, Booker’s going to need you more than ever.”

“It’s been over eight hours, Joe.” Her heart thumps painfully in her chest, that sharp ache making her breathing hitch. Tears rise to her eyes whether she means for them to or not. “Fuck, I’m so tired…”

“Then rest,” Joe says. “Go get something from the vending machine or at least drink some water before you—” The rest of his words die in his throat as the curtain opens and Booker’s bed wheels through the door. Andy straightens up in her chair and Joe heaves out a frustrated sigh. “Fuck,” he swears under his breath, scrubbing a hand over his face.

“I’m fine,” Andy promises quietly as she quickly brushes her tears away before pushing herself up and grabbing for Booker’s hand. 

God, he looks worse than when she had last seen him, face grey with fatigue and worry, and his unfocused eyes take a moment to meet Andy’s when Booker tries to look at her. “Have they…have they found them yet?” he croaks, words slurring out of sheer tiredness more than anything else. “My boys?”

She shakes her head. “Not yet,” Andy says as she sits on the edge of the bed. “I haven’t heard anything from Blanchet yet, either.”

“I can call him and see if there are any updates. He gave me his card just in case Léa called Booker,” Joe says, already pulling out his phone. “Nicky’ll be up soon too—he just got back to the hospital.”

Andy nods, rubbing at her bleary eyes once more. “Let me know what Blanchet says.” 

The younger man gives her a pointed look and mouths, ‘Water. Now.’ before putting the phone to his ear and leaving the room.

She watches the door close, still holding tight to Booker’s hand, and barely realizes he’s gently stroking her knuckles until Andy hears him murmur her name. “Andy?” She looks over at Booker, the edges of his features hazy in her exhaustion, but there’s unmistakable concern in his blue eyes as he studies her face. “Y'okay?”

“I’m fine,” Andy mumbles, forcing out a wobbling smile as she swallows back a throatful of saltwater. She despises how hollow it seems, how fake it must sound, but she’s too tired to put a better mask on. “Just worried about the boys. Worried about you.”

Booker’s brow knits tight in the center of his forehead—deep cracks appearing like glaciers carving through soft earth. “I don’t want you worrying about me,” he murmurs quietly, only making that ache in Andy’s heart deepen. “I’ve been through worse.”

“You’ve got a concussion. Your wrist is broken in three places,” Andy says, tears rising to her eyes despite her best effort to hold them back. “I’m not like Léa, Book. Seeing you like this makes me so fucking mad I can barely breathe.”

“I…I know you’re not like her,” Booker croaks, voice small and weak. “I’d never want that.”

“I’ve had to patch you up after so much shit but never like this,” she mumbles, her stare burning a hole in the hospital sheets as Andy clenches her jaw hard enough to make her teeth grind. “It just reminds me so much of your honeymoon and even though I’m right beside you this time, I still feel just as fucking helpless. Like I’m just sitting here, wasting space.”

The first track of saltwater cuts down the bridge of her nose as Booker pulls her closer, their clasped hands tight to his chest. “The last thing you are is a waste of space, Andy,” he says, his own eyes going bloodshot and glassy. “I don’t know what I’d do without you, especially now.”

Andy nods, brushing her tears away as she forces her breathing steady with a shuddering hitch. “I know, I’m sorry.”

Booker shakes his head, squeezing her hand again. “Don’t apologize. Not to me, not for anything, okay?”

Just as she’s about to admit defeat, the door opens again and Joe slips through the curtain—followed closely by Nicky. The older of the two men looks even more worried than he did when he left as he scrubs a hand over his beard. “Blanchet said he still doesn’t have any updates,” Joe says, distractedly scrolling through his phone. “He said there have been a couple of tips but all of them have been busts.” He stops and looks up at Andy. “Did you eat anything?”

She pinches the bridge of her nose between her fingers. “Joe, stop it. I said I was fine.”

Huffing out an annoyed sound, Joe looks at Nicky and says, “I’m getting us all breakfast downstairs. I just need to fucking walk.” He storms out of the room without even a second glance back to any of them and Andy wishes it stung less than it did.

“He’ll be fine—Joe just doesn’t deal well with stress,” Nicky says, a gentle hand coming to rest at the center of Andy’s back. “He doesn’t like having to sit here and wait.”

Andy scoffs, trying not to sound as bitter as she does when she says, “And he thinks I do?”

Nicky lets out a heavy sigh and settles into a chair by the window, shaking his head. “No, but right now, it’s all we can do.”

But it doesn’t mean the waiting is easy.

The hours drag on, even after Joe comes back with food that none of them really touch. Andy’s too anxious to stomach anything more than a couple of sips of coffee and a bite of danish that Nicky all but stares her down to take. 

At half past ten, an orthopedic tech comes in and puts a final cast on Booker’s wrist and Joe makes a thin joke about wanting to be the first to sign it. None of them take it too seriously, but Andy still finds herself scratching a small, simple heart on the blue fiberglass cast—right in the palm of Booker’s hand.

Every time she sees it, it settles her racing heart just enough to keep Andy from falling apart.

At least until Joe’s phone buzzes on the table at nearly 1pm—everyone’s heads snapping up at the noise. Andy’s heart stops dead in her chest as Joe scrambles to grab his rattling phone, his face falling when he looks at the number on the screen. “It’s Blanchet,” he says before putting the phone to his ear. “Oui, allo? Yes, this is Joe al-Kaysani…”

Andy finds herself frozen in place, breathing going shallow as Joe silently listens to the call, nodding slightly to whatever is being said. Booker and Nicky look equally panic-stricken—the room hanging in a delicate balance like the calm before the storm.

“Okay…okay, thank you. Yeah, we’ll be here,” Joe croaks, ending the call with shaking fingers. Andy can’t even bring herself to ask, not with the way her friend is staring at his phone like he’s just been handed the worst news possible. It takes a minute for Joe to speak, but he’s no less shaken than before as he looks up, glancing between her and Booker as he says, “Capitaine Blanchet is on his way back to the hospital. He’s coming right now.”

All the blood rushes out of Andy’s head. “What does that mean?” she asks, unsure if she really wants the answer or not. “Does that mean they found the boys?”

Joe shakes his head. “I don’t know, he didn’t tell me. He just said he was coming with news.”

Nicky lets out a quiet stream of Italian, running his hand through his hair before pushing himself out of his chair and anxiously beginning to pace back and forth across the room. Andy swallows thickly and nods, some terrible part of her knowing that this was going to happen eventually. 

They were going to reach the end of this one way or another and now it was finally here.

“Andy?” Booker says her name so quietly that she barely hears it over the rush of blood in her ears. Andy turns to look at him, heart breaking all over again when she sees the fearful tears welling up in her boyfriend’s eyes. “Please don’t leave me,” he croaks, voice barely audible as he reaches a trembling hand for hers. “I need you to stay.”

“I’m staying, Book,” Andy says, lacing their fingers together and setting her jaw. There’s nowhere else she could be, even in a moment like this. “I’m not going anywhere.”

It’s an agonizing wait, every second dragging out into hours until a soft knock on the door makes everything come rushing back.

The floor drops out underneath her as Captain Blanchet steps into the room, followed by two other uniformed officers. Nicky stops pacing and Joe immediately straightens in his chair, looking at Andy in pure fear. Booker grips her hand so tight that the pain spikes through her arm, but none of that matters when Blanchet takes a deep breath and says, “Monsieur Le Livre, I need to speak with you privately.”

It can’t be good news. Not with the way the captain says it.

A soft, wounded noise punches out of her chest and, from somewhere far off, she hears Nicky whispering prayers in Italian under his breath. Booker shakes his head and chokes, “No, whatever—whatever it is, just tell me.”

Blanchet sighs, scrubbing a hand over his mouth. Andy can feel her heart beating behind her eyelids, blood pounding with every terrible second that passes as the captain looks between the two other officers. “I’ve just been notified that all three of your sons have been found,” Captain Blanchet says. “Alive.”

The world tips and Andy’s knees buckle, sending her collapsing into her chair as a relieved sob tears its way up Booker’s throat. Tears flood her eyes and it’s everything she can do to keep from breaking down completely.

“The children are being transported to the hospital,” Blanchet continues. “I have not been told of their condition but once that information becomes available to me, you will be the first one to hear it, Monsieur.”

“I need to see them,” Booker rasps, fumbling his heart monitor off his hand and awkwardly ripping open the blood pressure cuff. The monitor alarm lets out a long, sustained wail and Nicky immediately moves to shut it off before they’re interrupted by more doctors and nurses. “I need to be there when they get here.” His hands shake as he shoves the blanket off and tries to climb off the bed. “I need—I need to—”

“Book, stop,” Andy says, wrapping a hand around his bicep to keep him from tumbling off. “They’re not even here yet.”

Even Blanchet steps forward, insisting, “Once your children have received treatment, I can escort you to their rooms.”

The moment those words leave the captain’s mouth, the reality of the situation comes rushing back. Andy freezes, breath caught in her lungs as Booker tenses underneath her hand. “What do you mean treatment?” he croaks, voice shaking as his brow furrows in panic. “What did she do to them?” Booker tries to pull away as hysteria begins to set in. “Where was Léa keeping them? What did she d-do to them?!”

Captain Blanchet raises his hands, as if Booker was a wild animal he needed to calm, and Andy catches the look of desperation in the officer’s eyes. “Please, Monsieur Le Livre,” he begs, “I really must insist that I speak to you alone. My fellow officers can—”

“Tell me where she took them!” Booker shouts, breath heaving and body trembling as Andy struggles to keep him from scrambling out of bed. “What did Léa do to my boys?!”

Even in his exhausted, injured state, it takes everything in Andy’s body just to block Booker from clawing his way to the door. “Book, stop!” she says, frantically looking to Joe and Nicky for assistance. “Just sit back down and we can come back after you—”

He shakes his head, stumbling off onto unstable legs, and pushes weakly at Andy’s steadying hands. “Capitaine, please! Tell me what my wife did!” Booker barks, ripping his shoulder out of Joe’s hand as the younger man reaches for him as well. “Just tell me where she had them! I need—I have to know if they—”

“I’m sorry, I—” Blanchet fumbles for his words, helplessly looking at Andy. “I can’t, not with—”

Something’s wrong.

She can feel it in her bones, in her very soul. Her head pounds with every racing heartbeat, blood rushing through Andy’s ears in roaring waves that drown out the cacophony of shouting around her. She grips Booker’s shirt, trying to pull him back onto the bed as he continues pleading with Captain Blanchet. Andy can hear Joe and Nicky’s voices in the mix as well, but they sound far off—muddled phrases slipping in and out of the static inside her head.

Time slows for a moment as she looks around at the chaos surrounding her and wonders how the hell they ended up here.

And then it all comes racing back into the frantic center of the storm, everything turning into a mess of jumbled voices and desperate limbs. Andy’s just about to drag everyone else out of the room until it’s just her and Booker alone until Booker screams, “Just tell me what she did to my boys! Tell me what my wife—”

“Your wife is dead.”

Blanchet’s voice cuts through the din and the world goes silent.

One of Andy’s hands flies out to grip the foot of the hospital bed, numbly steadying herself as her legs threaten to buckle. Nicky drops into a chair and covers his mouth with his hand while Joe just grips Booker’s arm tighter, his entire body stiffening. 

A sharp breath from Booker pierces the silence of the room and he sways a little where he stands. “Wh…what?”

Captain Blanchet pinches the bridge of his nose and closes his eyes before letting out a heavy sigh. “Léa Allard was found unresponsive at the scene when the children were located by a passerby. When an SMUR unit arrived, they were unable to revive her,” he says solemnly, head bowed. “Her wounds were consistent with self-inflicted injuries. I’m…” Blanchet pauses for a moment before looking up at Booker with weary consolation in his eyes. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

Andy stares at the captain in paralyzed horror and barely feels the words come out of her mouth until she’s suddenly whispering, “She…she’s not dead…she c-can’t be…”

They were supposed to arrest Léa. Booker was supposed to have his day in court. She was supposed to be brought to justice for every bit of pain and suffering she had put him through. All of it—now gone.

“I truly am sorry,” the officer murmurs. “I’ll come back when I receive more information about the boys.”

Andy blinks, watching Captain Blanchet and the two other officers leave in complete silence, and still can’t move a muscle, even when she hears Joe snarl under his breath, “That fucking cunt.”

Nicky raises his head, eyes bloodshot. “Yusuf, please…”

“What?! Like I’m the only one thinking it?” he snaps, teeth bared in dripping rage as Joe’s head whips around to look at his husband. “After everything Léa’s done to Booker, that bitch kills herself before we can even—”

Joe's voice trails off, furious words turning into static inside Andy's head as she looks at Booker.

He’s just staring off into space, like the news has taken any bit of life still left in him. A single tear spills over Andy’s lower lashes, legs threatening to give out again as she takes in his ghost-white face and shell-shocked eyes. "Book?" Andy whispers, heart dropping into her stomach when he's unable to even look at her. "Are you okay?"

His lips move, as if he were trying to choke out some desperate plea, but no words form. Any remaining color seeps from his face as Booker sways again, eyes rolling back into his head before he suddenly collapses to the floor.

"Fuck!" Joe cries, wrapping his arms around the older man’s chest in an attempt to catch Booker before he hits the ground. "Nicky, help!"

It takes all three of them to maneuver him back up into the bed—Andy cradling Booker’s head the entire time. “Is he okay?” she croaks, heart still churning uncomfortably in her gut. “Do we need to call for someone?”

The Italian shakes his head, hooking up the heart and blood pressure monitors. “I think he just fainted,” Nicky murmurs, his own face still pale from the shock of the news. “All his vital signs look alright though…” Andy nods, scrubbing her hands over her thighs just to give her hands something to do. But it does nothing to help the hole in her chest that opens the moment Nicky suddenly presses his fingertips to his eyes, bending over with a broken, “Madre di Dio, those poor boys…”

She tries not to let that sick bit of jealousy eat into her, but it’s hard for Andy to keep it from poisoning her heart as Joe immediately is at Nicky’s side, wrapping his husband in a tight embrace. God, what she would give to just be an onlooker in this.

What she would give not to be so wrapped up in this that she feels like all of this is her fault.

Booker’s eyes flutter open a minute later, his brow furrowing as he dazedly fumbles for her. Andy immediately takes his hand, wrapping both of hers around his outstretched fingers. “An…Andy…” Booker mumbles, Andy’s heart sinking as his breath hitches again. “Blanchet…my boys…”

She sits on the edge of the bed and laces her fingers through Booker’s before glancing at Joe and Nicky. “Can you guys wait outside?” she asks quietly, still trying to process everything that just happened herself. Andy doesn’t know how the hell they’re going to get through this, not after what Léa’s done, but she doesn’t want Joe and Nicky to see them both break if it comes to that.

Nicky looks far less willing to leave them alone than Joe does, but a steady, reassuring look from Andy seems to be persuasion enough.

As much as he’s trying to keep himself in one piece, she can see Booker’s strength start to crack the moment they find themselves alone again. Andy watches a steady stream of tears seep down the side of his face, watches saltwater pool against the bridge of his nose, but can’t do a damn thing to console the man she loves when he closes his eyes and begs, “T-Tell me she’s n-not d-dead, Andy. P-Please…”

“Sébastien…”

Booker shakes his head, face crumbling as he dissolves into quiet sobs. “She c-can’t have d-done that…not in f-front—in f-front of the b-b-boys…”

Andy eases her arm under Booker’s head and carefully lays beside him, tucked in the tight space between his body and the edge of the bed. She buries her face in the crown of his head and wraps as much of herself as she can around Booker. 

She can’t change the past and she can’t bring herself to lie to him the way he wants her to, but Andy will be as much of a shield as she can be in this moment.

So he breaks and even though Andy feels herself crack along with him, she still doesn’t let Booker go.

~~~

It’s another agonizing hour of waiting before Blanchet finally comes back—this time with a middle-aged female doctor in tow.

Andy swallows her stomach back down from where it’s been creeping up her throat since they were told that the boys had been found and sits at Booker’s right-hand side, lacing their fingers together as Blanchet and the doctor pull two chairs in front of them.

Andy can see the police officer glance at Joe and Nicky before turning his attention back to Booker. “Monsieur Le Livre, are you sure you want everyone in the room for this? I know information about your children’s condition can be—”

Booker shakes his head, gripping Andy’s hand so tight her knuckles crack. “No, I want them here,” he croaks. “They’re family.”

After everything they’ve been through, tonight and over the last few years, Andy wouldn't want to be anywhere else. And judging by the clenched jaws and steadied shoulders on both Joe and Nicky when she glances back at them, they're braced for the news as well.

Captain Blanchet motions to the woman beside him and says, “This is Dr. Moreau. She’s head of the pediatric emergency department and is overseeing your children’s care. Dr. DiGenova, I think you two are acquainted already.”

Dr. Moreau gives Nicky a small nod of acknowledgment before turning to face Booker. “Monsieur Le Livre, I want to start out by saying I am so sorry for what has happened to you and your children today, but I want you to know that my team has been giving the best care possible to all three of your boys.”

“Thank you,” Booker says, looking between the doctor and police officer. “But I just…I just want to know what happened and if they’re okay.”

“Your children were inside a parked car with their mother on an abandoned road near the Saint-Tronc quarry,” Captain Blanchet explains, voice so painfully even that Andy wonders how often he has to give news like this. “The vehicle was found by two hikers coming back from Mont Sainte Croix. The hikers heard the sound of the car’s horn and went to investigate—they immediately called for emergency services when they found Madame Allard unresponsive and covered in blood.”

Booker swallows thickly and glances at Andy for a moment before looking back at the officer. “If they heard honking and Léa was dead when they were found…” he says hesitantly, as if he was trying not to sound too hopeful. “Was…was it Théo?”

Blanchet nods, offering as reassuring of a half-smile as he can. “Yes, Théo had managed to unbuckle himself from his car seat and climb to the front. The hikers tried to get him to open a door so they could help, but he wasn’t able to at the time. The SMUR team broke a window to get him and the two younger boys out.”

“But he’s okay? All the boys are okay, right?” Andy asks quietly as Booker’s hand squeezes hers.

This time, Blanchet doesn’t answer.

This time, there’s a hesitation as he looks to Dr. Moreau and seems to give her the floor. Andy’s stomach twists, heart pounding high in her throat as the doctor lets out a soft sigh and looks at Booker. “All three of your children are suffering from the aftereffects of being trapped in a hot car, Monsieur Le Livre, as well as diphenhydramine toxicity. Since Théo is—”

“I’m sorry, what—” Booker interrupts, brow furrowing. “What’s diphendram…dephydro…”

“Diphenhydramine toxicity,” Nicky says from behind them, voice hollow and barely hiding the undeniable rage that’s simmering just below the surface when Andy looks over her shoulder at him. “Benedryl overdose—Léa drugged them.”

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Joe breathes, burying his head in his hands beside the Italian.

Andy blinks, the words hitting her like a punch to the gut, and feels her heart plummet straight to her stomach as she turns back to Dr. Moreau and Captain Blanchet. The doctor’s voice is as composed as ever though, as she continues. “My staff has been treating the children for both the medication overdose and heat stroke and all three boys have been responding well to treatment,” Dr. Moreau says. “Because Théo is the oldest, he fared the best when it came to the heat as well as the drugs he was given.”

“Can I see him?” Booker asks desperately, still clinging tight to Andy’s hand. “Capitaine Blanchet said that I could see my boys once they had been stabilized.”

“And they all are stabilized, but I want you to be aware of the condition your children are in, Monsieur.” There’s a heaviness to Dr. Moreau’s words and Andy feels it just as much as she knows Booker does. “I know you’re being treated for your own injuries, and I understand it may be upsetting to see them in the hospital,” she says, “so I want to give you as much information as I can.”

“I just want to know if they’re okay,” Booker croaks, exhausted and scared as Andy strokes her thumb over his tight knuckles. “Please, just tell me…”

"Théo was conscious when the SMUR unit arrived, and has responded well to cooling treatments, as well as rehydration," Dr. Moreau explains. "He is currently still a little groggy from the drugs and has superficial cuts from broken glass in the car, but is in good spirits. He's mostly been worried about his brothers and refuses to be separated from Émile."

A breathless, shaky laugh spills from Booker as he wipes his eyes with a trembling hand. "That sounds like my Théo."

"As for the two younger boys, both were unresponsive by the time the SMUR team arrived," the doctor continues quietly. "Théo told us that Émile had been awake and crying when he woke up, and that he had managed to find a half-empty water bottle to give to Émile, but he could not get Jean-Pierre to wake up. At some point, before help arrived, Émile succumbed to the heat and lost consciousness as well."

A wave of nausea washes over Andy and she has to swallow back a mouthful of stomach acid just to keep from throwing up.

This was everything she had been scared of from the moment she found out the boys were missing. Andy had been hoping that Léa’s love of the boys would outweigh her sick need to make Booker suffer. But here they all were anyway, facing the fact that if Léa couldn't have them, she had tried to make sure no one could.

"Émile's ventilation took some time to stabilize, but he is breathing on his own, which is a good sign," Dr. Moreau says, as reassuringly as she possibly can. "He does have some damage to his kidneys from the diphenhydramine, but that should heal by the time he's released from our care."

The room goes quiet and Booker squeezes her hand twice in quick succession, making Andy look over at him. There's a haunted look in his bloodshot eyes and she can hear the desperate plea without Booker even having to say a word.

Ask about JP. I can't do it myself.

Jean-Pierre, who was so attached to his father it was hard to get Booker to put him down sometimes. Jean-Pierre, who was just beginning to take his first steps. Jean-Pierre, who was secretly Andy’s favorite, even if she claimed she loved all of the boys equally.

Jean-Pierre, who was so fucking little that there's no telling what kind of damage Léa was able to do to his tiny body.

But Andy knows Booker is just as sick with worry as she is, and just as terrified to hear the prognosis from Dr. Moreau, so she has to ask the dreaded question herself. "What about the baby?" she asks, trying to keep her voice from trembling. "What about Jean-Pierre?"

Dr. Moreau and Captain Blanchet share a quick, solemn look before the doctor turns back to them. “Jean-Pierre had a severe reaction to the diphenhydramine poisoning, and the heat stroke seems to have exacerbated many of his symptoms,” she says, making Andy’s heart crumble into a thousand pieces inside her chest. “He suffered a series of minor seizures while being treated by the SMUR team at the scene, as well as one when he arrived at the hospital. We’ve sedated him to stop any further seizures while he’s treated for the overdose and severe dehydration, but that also means we’ve had to intubate him in the meantime.” 

Andy clenches her jaw tight, swallowing back the sob that’s creeping up her throat, and watches the hospital room go blurry as tears flood her eyes. She keeps a tight hold on Booker’s uninjured hand as he buries his face in their entwined fingers, whispering unintelligible prayers in hushed French.

“Jean-Pierre is responding well to treatment, just as his brothers are, but he is still in critical condition,” Dr. Moreau continues. “Émile and Théo are being kept in the same room, in an effort to keep the older of the two boys calm, but we haven’t let Théo see Jean-Pierre yet. We’re worried it would be too distressing for him.”

Booker falls silent, prayers dying in his chest even as Andy holds on to him like a lifeline in a storm. Are there any words for moments such as this?

“Do you still want to see your children, Sébastien?” Captain Blanchet asks gently, placing a reassuring hand on Booker’s shoulder. “There’s no shame in needing more time.”

Shame had brought them all here, had kept Booker in his abusive marriage for far too long. It had kept their relationship from Joe and Nicky, even if their friends would have supported them the entire time. Andy can’t let shame keep Booker from his boys and she knows he wouldn’t want that either.

So she does what Booker isn’t strong enough to do at this moment and speaks first. “We want to see the boys, but can…can we have a minute?” Andy asks, meeting the officer’s gaze.

Blanchet nods and pushes himself up from the chair. “Of course. Take as much time as you need. Dr. Moreau and I will be waiting outside the door.”

Andy watches the captain and the doctor slip through the door, fingers still intertwined with Booker’s, and glances over her shoulder at Joe and Nicky for a brief moment before focusing back on her boyfriend. “Book?” she murmurs gently, leaning in close to brush the bridge of her nose over his clenched-tight knuckles. “Are you okay?”

The first sob comes as nothing more than a trembling breath, but Andy hears it all the same.

Booker’s shoulders shake in silent tremors, tears seeping down their clasped hands, and Andy’s heart breaks all over again when she hears him quietly weep, “It should’ve been me.”

“Book…”

“It should’ve been me, it should’ve—it should’ve been me,” Booker repeats over and over again until his words run together. “I can’t…I couldn’t protect my boys and look what she did to them…”

“This wasn’t your fault, Booker,” Joe says, moving over to sit in the chair Blanchet had abandoned. “It was you for so long, remember? How much shit did she do to you? How many times did you allow it to happen just to keep her abuse from the boys, to keep them safe?” It’s the truth but, even with Joe’s empathetic wisdom, Andy knows it still hurts to hear. “All of this is Léa’s fault, not yours.”

Booker finally raises his head, eyes swollen and bloodshot, cheeks crusted with salt water. “I should’ve stopped her,” he croaks. “I should’ve done something.”

“You let us get the cops involved, Booker. You finally decided to say something because you knew the boys were in trouble.” Joe’s dark, tired eyes are full of reverence as he offers his friend a smile. “You were so fucking brave, man, and I’ve honestly never been more proud of you. Don’t sell yourself short.”

A weak, wet laugh punches out of Booker as he scrubs at his eyes with his free fingers. Andy offers her own exhausted smile as she strokes her thumb over the back of his hand. Booker lets out another trembling exhale and the tender moment passes as reality comes rushing back. “ Merde…” he whispers, pressing his fingers against his eye socket. “Okay, I think…I think I’m ready.”

Booker might be ready, but Andy’s not quite sure she is.

Chapter Text

The walk to the pediatric ER feels a thousand kilometers long and every step is harder than the one before.

Andy’s hands clench around the handles of the wheelchair as she pushes Booker behind Captain Blanchet and Dr. Moreau. Even though she knows what the boys have gone through, she’s still not quite sure what to expect when they actually get to the rooms. 

“The two older boys are in here,” Dr. Moreau says, stopping in front of one of the doors. She offers them a smile as Booker reaches up and wraps his uninjured hand around Andy’s. “Théo will be excited to see you, Monsieur Le Livre. He has been asking for his Papa quite frequently.”

Closing her eyes, Andy tries to steady herself as best she can, but can’t stop the quiet, “Fucking hell…” that spills out of her mouth on its own accord.

She flinches when a hand touches the space between her shoulder blades, looking over her shoulder at Joe and Nicky’s somber faces. The younger of the two men smiles gently and murmurs, “Joe and I will wait out here. Just let us know if you need us, sì?”

Andy nods shakily but feels her heart drop into her stomach the second the door opens.

The hospital bed is empty, abandoned by Théo for the chair beside his younger brother's crib. The four-year-old looks up and immediately bursts into tears when he sees his father. "Papa!" Theo cries, scrambling up to reach a bandaged hand out for Booker while still refusing to let go of Émile's hand through the bars of the crib. "Papa, you came back!"

The wheelchair rattles as Booker pushes himself out of the seat and stumbles over to kneel in front of his son. He wraps his arms around Théo, drawing his oldest boy to his chest as he chokes, “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry, mon chéri.” Andy watches Booker struggle to hold back tears as he buries his face in Théo’s sandy blond curls, rocking the boy as gently as he can. “I never meant for any of this to happen.”

Her legs feel weak as Andy crosses the room to Émile’s crib, taking in the sleeping toddler. His cheeks are sunburnt and flushed from the heat, lips chapped from dehydration, and there are so many wires and monitors hooked up to his tiny body that it makes her sick.

“Maman got hurt really bad,” Théo sobs into Booker’s shoulder, gauze-wrapped hands clenching in his father’s shirt. “She kept telling us n-not to cry and gave us some juice, but I fell asleep.”

“Shhhh, it’s okay, Théo, you don’t have to say anything about it,” Booker promises, voice hollow and wobbling as he looks up at Andy desperately.

But Théo keeps babbling hopelessly, saying, “One of JP’s bottles broke and Maman got hurt so bad and she wouldn’t wake up.” He pulls away from Booker and scrambles back into the chair, reaching his arms through the bars to hold Émile’s hand with both of his. “I couldn’t get Mimile and JP out of their seats and I didn’t wanna leave them, Papa…”

A single tear rolls down Booker’s cheek as he reaches out for his eldest son’s face. “You did everything right and none of this was your fault,” he murmurs, stroking his thumb over Théo’s sun-chapped cheek. “You were so brave, Théodore, and I’m really proud of you.”

Théo tries to keep his chin up, but Andy can see the way his lower lip quivers as he touches the bruises on his father’s face with painfully careful fingertips. But something inside him breaks as Théo looks down at the cast on Booker’s arm.

“Did…Papa, did you hurt your arm like Maman?” he whispers, the tears suddenly coming in full force once more. His tiny body is wracked by hiccuping sobs as Théo scrubs a hand over his eyes, soaking his bandages in saltwater. “Are you g-going to go to sleep and not w-wake up like her and JP?”

Booker shakes his head frantically, choking, “No, no, no, no, I’m okay. Papa’s okay, Théo. It’s going to get better and so will Jean-Pierre—I promise.”

“What about M-Maman?”

Andy watches Booker freeze, her own heart slamming to a dead stop against the center of her sternum. This question was going to come eventually—they both knew that—but hearing it come out of Théo’s mouth still hurts more than she thought it would.

She feels like she's intruding on this fragile moment, but there's nowhere to run to. Nowhere to hide.

So even as Booker finally releases a shaky exhale and reaches for Théo’s hand in quiet comfort, Andy stays by his side.

"I…I have something to tell you, Théo. And it might make you sad but if you are sad, I want you to know that's okay," Booker says, voice thick as he tries to hold back tears. "Maman…she's not…"

His words fail and Andy reaches down, fingertips smoothing over the trembling muscles in his shoulders, and hopes any last strength she has gets passed to Booker for this unimaginable news.

He hangs his head, squeezing Théo’s hand gently before looking back up at his son. "Maman died, Théo, and that means she won't be around to be with us anymore."

Andy can see the news sink in slowly, Théo's eyebrows knitting together in the center of his forehead as he whispers, “Oh…” He sniffs quietly before asking in a small voice, "Why…why did she die?"

Booker shakes his head, swallowing back another sob. It seems to take him a moment to find any kind of words and Andy wonders how much of the truth he’ll give his son. But when the words do come, they’re more honest than any other explanation Booker could’ve given.

“I don’t know, Théo,” he whispers. “I wish I did, but I don’t.”

Another tear tracks down the four-year-old’s blistered cheek and Théo is silent for a moment before looking at Émile. He leans his forehead against the bars of the crib, fingers trailing over his younger brother’s arm before he finally mumbles, “My throat hurts, Papa. Can I have a popsicle?”

A heavy sigh spills from Booker as he gently rubs his palm over Théo’s back and says, “Yeah, you can have a popsicle." He looks around, scrubbing at the dark circles under his eyes. "I just gotta…find a nurse…"

"Come here, Book," Andy murmurs, reaching out for his hand. "Let me help you up."

Even with his hand wrapped around her forearm and Andy putting all her weight into it, it takes two tries to get Booker to his feet. He looks pale and clammy, legs shaking a little as he clings to Andy, but he's still almost entirely focused on his sons—gaze lingering on Théo and Émile as he says, "I need to go—go find a nurse…"

"You need to go sit down," Andy says, slowly leading him over to the wheelchair. "Popsicles can wait, especially because Théo doesn't need to see you pass out again."

Booker looks absolutely exhausted by the time he collapses into the wheelchair, chest heaving and hand trembling. They both look over at the boys, Theo still devotedly attached to his brother's side, and Booker sounds absolutely worn through as he says, “I shouldn’t have told him about Léa. He didn’t—he didn’t need to know.”

Andy’s fingers absentmindedly twist the hair at the nape of his neck as she murmurs, “He was there, Book. He knows something happened and it would just hurt him more if you lied.”

Booker makes some tired noise of defeat, like he knows she’s right but is too exhausted to fully agree, but stiffens when the door opens behind them and a young black woman enters the hospital room—tucking a file folder under her arm.

The woman approaches them quickly, holding out her hand to Booker. “Monsieur Le Livre, my name is Nile Freeman and I’m with l’Aide Sociale á l’Enfance. I’ve been assigned to your family’s case.”

Andy’s shoulders tighten and, out of the corner of her eye, she can see Booker’s hand clench around the armrest of the wheelchair in quiet panic. She’s not surprised ASE was getting involved, especially with Léa’s suicide, but that doesn’t mean Andy’s mind isn’t already going to the worst possible scenario.

“It’s…thank you for being here, Mademoiselle Freeman,” Booker croaks, anxiously glancing at Andy before shaking Nile’s hand. “Is…Is everything alright? We’ve never had ASE open a file on us before.”

Nile’s umber eyes flit over to Théo and Émile before she relaxes her expression, a gentle smile on her face. “It’s just a legal precaution. I can go over the details if you and I can speak privately for a minute, Monsieur.”

Just as Andy’s about to open her mouth and say that she needs to know what’s going on just as much as Booker does—considering the fact that she’s going to be the one helping him pick up the pieces of the boys’ lives—but Booker’s already jumping to her defense. “I want Andy here,” he says firmly, looking up at the younger woman. “She’s my—she’s going to be with me when I take the boys home.”

As sympathetic as Nile looks, she still shakes her head. “I’m aware of your situation with Madame Mávros, but I’m sorry—I can only share information with parents or legal guardians,” she says. “It’ll just be a second.”

“It’s fine, Book,” Andy mumbles, even if they both know it’s a lie. “I’ll go sit with Théo while you two talk.” Booker’s face is full of worry at the thought of doing this without her, but the tension in his shoulders melts away when she mouths, ‘It’s okay. I love you.’

He nods, reluctantly accepting that she won’t be at his side for what might be the hardest conversation he’s faced since they first called the police, but it doesn’t stop Booker from glancing at her every thirty seconds—even when Andy is forced across the room to Théo’s side. She can feel his panicked gaze on her back as she kneels at the crib, cup of grape juice in hand, but tries to focus her attention on the four-year-old sitting in the chair.

“Hey, Bug,” Andy murmurs, offering the cup to Théo. “The nurses didn’t have any popsicles, but they said you could have some juice if you want.”

Théo barely even glances at her, still too focused on the gentle rise and fall of his brother’s chest. “I don’t want juice, Tatie Andy,” he mumbles, forehead pressed against the bars of the crib. “I don’t want to go to sleep again.”

Andy’s stomach jumps to the peak of her throat at the realization that Théo thinks she’s trying to drug him like Léa had, and it takes every bit of strength she has to keep her voice even as she says, “It won’t make you sleepy, I promise. It’s just regular juice.”

“I don’t want it,” Théo repeats, voice wobbling like he’s trying not to cry again.

“Okay, okay, you don’t have to have it. I just figured it might make your throat feel better.” Andy reaches through the bars alongside Théo and strokes her thumb along the bottom of Émile’s foot. She can see the older boy watching the motion of her hand—the same protective scowl furrowed in Théo’s brow that she’s seen on Booker so many times before—and lets out a soft sigh. “You did a really good job today, Bug,” Andy murmurs, gently nudging her shoulder against Theo's. “Especially protecting your brothers.”

Théo’s quiet for a moment, chin pillowed on his free arm, before he asks in a small voice, “Can Papa go home and get me new clothes? The doctors threw mine away since there was a lot of blood on them.” His amber eyes are rimmed in red when he looks over at Andy tiredly. “I want my yellow robot shirt, Tatie.”

Andy nods, drawing Théo into her lap as the first tear rolls down his cheek. “We can get your robot shirt, Théo, I promise,” she whispers into the top of his head, comforting words nestled into his sandy curls. “Whatever you want from home, I’ll make sure someone can get it.”

The four-year-old sniffs and wipes at his face with his free hand. “Even my snail blanket?”

“Even your snail blanket.”

A weak smile tugs on Théo’s lips and, for a brief moment, Andy thinks they’re all going to be alright. But then a quiet whimper comes from the crib beside them, Émile beginning to stir awake, and the older of the two boys scrambles to attention.

“Mimile,” Théo gasps, shoving his way out of Andy’s lap to stand at his brother’s side. Both of his hands reach in, petting the toddler’s face as it screws tight—Émile letting out a raspy cry. Théo’s face suddenly falls, eyes going wide as he stammers, “No, no, it’s okay Mimile, it’s Téo. It’s your Téo, ouais?”

Émile’s cries begin to get louder as his eyes open fully, the two-year-old stretching uncomfortably in his crib as two of the nurses rush to his side. Andy wraps her hands around Théo’s arms, trying to pull him out just enough to give the nurses some space to work.

“Hey, T, maybe we—maybe we should let the nurses take care of Émile, okay?” she murmurs, Théo squirming in her grasp. “He’s going to be fine, he just—”

“Let me go, Tatie!” Théo shouts, sharp elbows and knobby knees digging into her stomach. “I need—He needs me! Mimile needs me!” His breathing quickens to the point of hyperventilation as the toddler’s wails reach a peak, even with the nurses soothing Émile. “I have to make him stop! He has—he has to stop crying! I can make him stop!”

“Andy?” She looks over her shoulder at Booker’s panicked call of her name, but her stomach drops at the frantic worry on the blond’s face as his eldest son begins screaming. “Andy, is everything okay?”

Just as Andy’s about to tell him that everything’s fine, she startles at the gentle touch of a hand on her back. “Madame?” a nurse says, reaching both her hands out for Théo. “I can take Théodore and make him comfortable, if you want. We’ve calmed him down from episodes like this before.”

Andy shakes her head, wrestling Théo back into her arms more securely. “No, I’m—Théo, shhh, it’s okay—I can take care of him. I’ve got him.”

She can do this. She has to be able to do this. If she can’t calm Théo down, then what the hell is she even doing here? What fucking good is she if Andy can’t do this one goddamn thing? Léa is gone and Booker’s barely hanging on and she has to fucking step up for these boys.

“I’ve got you,” Andy murmurs into the crown of Théo’s head as his panic attack reaches a climax and the four-year-old breaks down into tears, muffling his sobs into her arm. “Tatie’s got you, Bug. It’s all going to be okay.”

She’s told the same lie to Booker a thousand times over the course of the past twelve hours, but repeating it to Théo feels even heavier this time around.

~~~

It takes almost twenty minutes to calm Théo down, the four-and-a-half-year-old only settling once he was allowed to sit in Émile’s crib, arms wrapped protectively around his younger brother.

The crying spell leaves Émile with a rattling wheeze—one that still lingers even as the toddler sips on the juice Andy had first offered Théo—but he looks content in his brother’s arms and even more so when Dr. Moreau wheels Booker over to his boys.

Andy tries to let her guard down in the moment of calm that comes as she sits in the chair and watches Booker whisper quiet, reassuring words in French to Émile and Théo, but it doesn’t stop both of the boys’ screams from echoing in her head—even now that the worst of it is over.

Andy can feel the anger radiating up through her clenched jaw into her skull—can feel that burning rage seep down through her shoulders to her fists with no place left for it to go. She had hated Léa for years for what she did to Booker, but what she had done to the boys was pushing Andy to her breaking point. Her anger just swirls inside her like a raging storm, sending her adrift every time she looks back over at the boys.

Even if he never says it, she still catches that shaken look in Booker’s eyes every time he glances at her and Andy’s not sure if it’s lingering panic from the morning’s hysteria, seeing Théo’s panic attack, or the conversation he had with Nile.

As much as she hates to admit it, Andy’s starting to worry it might be the last, worst option.

“Can you…can you go see if Joe can come in and stay with them, when we go to visit Jean-Pierre?” Booker asks quietly, not quite meeting her eyes. “I don’t want Théo to think he’s being left alone again.”

“Yeah,” she mumbles, fingertips brushing over his shoulder, “I can get him.” Andy catches Nile’s gaze as she passes the social worker but, even though the younger woman offers her a smile, there’s something strained about it. Something that Andy was missing. But there’s nothing to be done in the moment. She needs Joe.

“Are you guys going to go see JP?” Joe asks as he pushes himself up from the floor at her request. Andy nods silently, desperately trying to unclench her fist to little avail. “Andy, is everything okay?” he asks. “We know…We heard a lot of crying in there.”

“Yeah, Théo just…” Andy runs a hand through her hair, looking back at the hospital room. “He’s having a hard time. He really wants his yellow robot shirt from home,” she mumbles, jaw aching with every word. “The doctors…the doctors threw his clothes out. And he wants his snail blanket. The one Nicky made him.”

Joe nods, glancing at his husband as he and Nicky share a heavy look. “I can have my sister get the spare keys and go to—”

“I’m sorry, Monsieur al-Kaysani?” Captain Blanchet interrupts, holding a hand up to catch their attention. “The Le Livre house is still considered an active crime scene. I can send one of my officers to gather Théo’s belongings.”

Active crime scene.

The words hit Andy like a punch to the gut and she feels her stomach viscerally roll at the realization that, even now that the danger is over, there won’t be a home to go back to. Not one that the boys or Booker will ever feel safe in.

“Merci, Capitaine,” she croaks, brushing off Joe’s worried hand as it rests on her shoulder. “Joe—the boys need you, yeah?”

As much as he looks like he wants to push the subject, Joe keeps quiet and simply kisses Nicky quickly before disappearing into the hospital room. Andy winces when she hears Théo begin crying again, begging his father not to leave, and feels all that fucking hate come rushing back in full force.

“Andy, are you sure you’re alright?” Nicky whispers as she crosses her arms tight over her chest, hiding her shaking fists in the safe shelter of her armpits. “I think you need to sit down—you look really pale.”

“Den akús ti su léo! None of you are fucking listening to me!” she snaps, words coming out far harsher than Andy means them to. Nicky steps back in surprise, eyes wide and a little betrayed, but it does nothing to quell the rage boiling inside her. “I am fucking fine, understand? The only ones you should be fucking worrying about, Nicolò, are those two little boys in there who almost got murdered by their goddamn mother!”

Her voice falls silent, words echoing through the spinning hallway as Nicky stares at her in complete silence. Andy can feel her cheeks burning—whether out of anger or embarrassment, she’s still not sure—but she still swallows back the regret that begins creeping up her throat.

She’s past the point of apologizing.

“Okay,” Nicky whispers, nodding stiffly. “Okay, I won’t ask you again—I promise.”

“Thank you,” she grits out, teeth still clenched so hard that Andy can feel the pressure behind her eye sockets. Out of the corner of her eye, she can see Captain Blanchet watching, but the officer has the decency to turn his back to her and busy himself with his phone as Andy looks at him.

With every shuddering breath, she can feel more and more cracks forming in her soul until Andy’s not quite sure what’s even holding her together at this point.

She’s holding on so tight that if she even so much as breathes wrong, she’s going to break. But then Andy looks back at the hospital room just in time to see Booker shakily push himself to his feet just to kiss Théo and Émile’s heads before he leaves, and she remembers who she’s staying strong for.

So Andy plasters on a thin smile as Dr. Moreau pushes Booker back out of the room, followed close behind by Nile.

Booker looks back at her, wincing a little at the stretch, but Andy just reassures him with a quiet, “I’m coming, don’t worry.” She falls in step with the young woman, watching the way Nile’s knuckles go tight as she grips the thick file. But Andy keeps her voice quiet as she says, “I didn’t know social workers had to chaperone abuse victims to see their own children.”

As sharp as Andy’s tone is, Nile doesn’t react. She keeps her head up and her gaze in front of her as she calmly says, “It’s a legal precaution. Nothing else.”

“That’s bullshit and you know it,” Andy hisses. “Sébastien has never hurt the boys and has been sitting here for twelve fucking hours, terrified that something would happen to them. What you’re doing to him now—after everything this family has been through—is wrong.”

The other woman’s dark eyes are sharp as she meets Andy’s gaze—never missing a single step. “I’m here to make sure these boys are taken care of, Madame Mávros,” Nile says firmly. “I was told you were as well.”

The comment sends another crack running through her soul, making Andy stumble a single, faltering step.

Nile wasn’t here for the boys, not like Andy was. She hadn’t been here sick with worry while they were missing. This is just a job to her and for Andy, it was so, so personal. These are Booker’s sons. These are her boys. There is no comparison.

And it must show on her face the moment Andy sees Booker, Dr. Moreau, and Nicky stop outside a room at the end of the hall.

Nicky’s face goes pale as he stares through the window, hand inadvertently dropping down to rest on Booker’s shoulder. Andy’s too far away to hear what the younger man says, but there’s no mistaking the way Booker’s muscles go tight—uninjured hand coming up to cover his face in panic.

You can do this, Andy thinks to herself. He needs you.

Booker needs her and JP needs her. She has to be fucking strong.

But it doesn’t mean that every step doesn’t feel like her last as she walks to her fiancé’s side. It doesn’t mean that taking Booker’s hand—thumb brushing against the minuscule heart she drew in the palm of his cast—doesn’t make her own heart plummet into the pit of Andy’s stomach.

She can hear Booker release a trembling exhale as she leans down and kisses the corner of his mouth. “Let’s go see our boy, Book,” Andy murmurs, holding back tears when Booker nods weakly.

“Our boy,” he repeats—softly, shakily. “Our boy.”

Andy steadies herself—braces for what’s going to come next as Dr. Moreau touches her elbow gently—but everything still tilts sideways once the doctor pushes the door open.

The first thing that hits her is the silence.

There are no relieved cries of “Papa!” or tearful reunions like there were with Théo. There is only the gentle beeping from the heart monitor and the quiet, steady hiss of the ventilator as they enter the room. Andy stares at the single crib in the middle of the room and the tiny body inside, and grips the handles of the wheelchair so hard that she’s surprised they don’t crack under her fingers.

Jean-Pierre is stripped down to his diaper in the middle of his crib, fans blowing on his flushed skin like the doctors still haven’t gotten him cool enough. His face and arms are so sunburnt that it hurts Andy just to look at him and the ventilator tube taped to his mouth makes her vision burn red with rage.

Her hand shakes as she reaches down into the crib, smoothing her thumb over one of JP’s swollen eyelids before combing her fingers through the infant’s chestnut curls. “Hey, maïmoudáki,” Andy croaks, barely able to raise her voice above a whisper. 

There’s no answer, no sign of life but the forced rise and fall of Jean-Pierre’s chest as the ventilator pumps air into his tiny body.

God, he looks so fucking fragile—like a baby bird fallen from the nest and left to die—and all Andy can think about is Léa drugging this poor little baby and Jean-Pierre crying in his car seat until the heat and medicine overtook him.

Blood pounds through her ears, muffling the beeping of the heart monitor and whatever Dr. Moreau says as she comes to stand beside Booker. Andy can’t tear her eyes away from Jean-Pierre, even as her vision goes blurry with tears. This is what Léa left behind. This is the damage she had created. Andy always despised Léa for the hell she had put Booker through, but this is another kind of monstrosity entirely.

What kind of mother could do this to her own child?

The trembling in her fingers worsens as Andy brushes her thumb over the edge of the medical tape, unimaginable rage burning in her chest as she watches the adhesive pull at the sunburn blisters on the infant’s cheek. She can’t breathe. She can’t even fucking think. There is only anger—at Léa, at every police officer who wasn’t able to find the boys in time, and, most of all, herself for not getting Booker and the boys somewhere safe before it got to this point.

Her legs go weak as catches sight of Booker’s grief-stricken face.

It’s something so much more raw than the outpouring of despair that had overcome him when he had Théo back in his arms. It’s the same helplessness that Andy had felt when she first found out the boys were missing. It’s the same overwhelming anguish that had come when she learned Jean-Pierre had suffered the most. It’s horrific and so unsettling it sends a shiver up her spine.

And then…

Then Andy watches Booker carefully stroke a single finger over Jean-Pierre’s before curling two fingers around his son’s tiny hand, tucking it gently into the safety of his own palm.

And in a single, blinding second, all of that anger, all of that heartbreak, all of that fucking rage completely overwhelms her so suddenly that Andy barely even realizes she’s stumbling out of the room until she pushes past Nicky.

Her vision tunnels as the younger man’s confused pleas die behind her—Andy clutching her chest as her lungs shrivel in panic. She can’t breathe, she can’t think. There’s nothing but that swirling rage sending her barreling down the hall like a car without brakes. Andy’s hand catches the wall as she stumbles again, desperate for any kind of shelter.

She can’t let Booker see her like this. She can’t let anyone see her like this.

Andy’s vision spins again as she grips the bathroom door handle, fumbling for the lock the moment she’s inside.

Her hyperventilating breaths echo off the tile walls as she paces the tiny enclosure like a caged animal. Furious tears well up in her eyes when Andy thinks of Jean-Pierre and his sunburnt face and all those goddamn tubes and that anger inside burns even hotter when she thinks about Léa.

Léa, who willingly tried to kill her own children. Léa, who doesn’t have to pick up the pieces. Léa, who doesn’t have to watch any of this suffering. Léa, who’s too fucking dead for any of it to matter.

And it makes Andy so. Goddamn. Angry.

It builds and builds inside of her until there’s nowhere else for it to go. Until it comes flooding up her throat in a hoarse cry of frustration as Andy slams the palm of her hand into the edge of the countertop—the sharp edge of the linoleum sending shockwaves of pain all the way through her hand up into her arm.

Her mind goes numb and the rage blinds her as she hits the counter again and again and again. Slams her hand down until the air rushes back into Andy’s lungs and she comes back into her body.

Andy stares down at her shaking hand—at the swollen skin and flushed-red, self-inflicted welt across her palm—and feels the final crack run through her remaining strength.

Like a bursting dam, she breaks.

The first tears cut through her chest like a knife, flooding out of Andy even as she covers her mouth to muffle her sobs. Her knees give out and she collapses to the floor, face buried in her throbbing hands.

She cries for Théo and Émile and Jean-Pierre, each tear coming harder than the one before. She cries for Booker who she left behind in that horrific hospital room. She cries until she can’t breathe—until she’s choking on her sobs on the tile floor of the bathroom. But, more than anything else, Andy cries for herself.

Crying because she had failed. She had failed those little boys and failed Booker.

Just a waste of space—exactly what she was afraid of.

Chapter Text

Andy’s feet pound on the pavement as she races towards the echoing sound of crying.

She can’t quite tell where it’s coming from, but she knows she has to find the boys no matter what. Her heart races in her chest as the streets around her blur into nothingness. Andy stumbles, catching herself on the crumbling pavement, and scrubs her hands over her ears as the screaming gets louder and louder.

And then she sees it.

The car sitting at the end of the street.

The windows of the old Peugeot SUV are dark as Andy races up, frantically pulling on the locked door handles. She can hear crying inside and it sounds like Émile more than either of the other two boys.

Her heart plummets to her stomach as she presses her face to the window, cupping her hands around her eyes to block the hazy light around her.

She sees Théo first—the four-year-old covered in blood as he frantically tugs on the buckles of Émile’s car seat. The toddler is flushed red and crying, eyes closed head lolled to the side, and Andy can’t stop the tears that flood her own eyes. She bangs on the window but Théo doesn’t notice her, too panicked about his brother’s safety.

“Théo?” Andy shouts, desperate to get his attention. “Théo, open the door!”

Through her tears, she can see Théo’s eyelids sag shut and mouth fall open as he struggles to breathe. His little fingers shake as he tries one more time to unbuckle Émile, failing again. Théo sags back, burying his face in the middle car seat, and Andy’s blood runs cold.

There’s little Jean-Pierre, cheeks a deep scarlet as he sits in the farthest car seat, head slumped forward against his chest. Andy slams her fist against the window, pulling on the door handle with her other hand. “Théo! Théo, just open the door! Please!” she begs around a broken sob as the oldest boy slowly wraps a hand around Jean-Pierre’s, Théo’s eyes slipping closed as his body goes still.

A raw, guttural scream rips its way out of Andy’s chest as she futilely tries to wrench the door open. She has to get to the boys. She has to. If she doesn’t, they’ll—

“Andy?”

She startles awake, scrambling upright in the pew with a panicked gasp as someone touches her shoulder. The nightmare is still pounding in her head, even as Andy scrubs trembling hands over her face and looks over to see Nicky’s worried face next to her.

There are a thousand apologies right at the tip of her tongue—I’m sorry for leaving, I’m sorry for yelling at you, I’m sorry for everything—but the only thing that comes out of her mouth when she opens it is a sharp sob.

Nicky’s arms are around her in an instant, drawing Andy into the solid warmth of his body. He doesn’t say anything and she’s never been more appreciative of the silence as she just buries her face in his shoulder, desperately forcing her breathing steady. One of Nicky’s broad hands cups the back of Andy’s head, nose pressed into her temple as he whispers, “It’s okay, Andy.”

“I shouldn’t have left,” she stammers, words muffled in the fabric of his shirt. “I shouldn’t have—”

But Nicky just shushes her gently, allowing Andy to pour all of the remaining heartbreak out into his willing arms. He holds her until her body stops shaking, until her breathing evens and she’s no longer soaking his shirt with tears. His arms tighten for a brief second, Nicky squeezing Andy tight once before he kisses the crown of her head and murmurs, “I’m just glad you’re alright, Andy. I was worried when you left.”

She pulls away, scrubbing her hands over her damp face before letting out a heavy sigh. “I didn’t mean to leave, I just—”

“It’s fine, Andy, really,” Nicky insists, squeezing her elbow gently. “We were just scared when we couldn’t find you.”

Andy looks around the empty chapel, at the pulpit in the front of the pews and the empty space on the wall where she knows a cross once hung, and can’t help but choke out a weak laugh. “Yeah, I—I didn’t expect to end up here, honestly,” she mumbles, crossing her arms tight over her chest. “I just couldn’t be in that hospital room, not when JP looked like that.”

A soft smile crosses the Italian’s face. “He’s doing better, you know—Jean-Pierre. The doctors took him off the ventilator and were planning on bringing him out of sedation when we finally heard someone saw you.”

Her brow furrows as Andy’s heart drops into her stomach. “How long was I out?”

Nicky checks his watch and says, “Almost three and a half hours. We thought you went home until one of our chaplains said he might’ve seen you sleeping in the chapel.”

A shaky breath spills from her mouth as Andy buries her head in her hands. “Fuck…” she chokes, thinking about Booker having been alone for the last few hours. Thinks about him having to watch over the boys without her by his side. All that shame floods back into the hollows of her chest and Andy can barely look Nicky in the eye as she asks, “Is he alright? Booker?”

“Booker’s fine,” he murmurs, even though it’s not as reassuring as it could be. “I think he understood why you left, but it still…” He runs a hand through his hair and shakes his head. “It’s just hard for him. It’s going to be hard for a long time, I think.”

Andy swallows back rising saltwater and stomach acid as she says, “This is so fucked up, Nicky. How the hell are we going to take these boys home and act like there’s any kind of normalcy for them?” Nicky makes a quiet, distracted noise in the back of his throat and it makes her pause for a moment. She looks over, taking in the far-off look in his eyes, and realizes it’s the same storm that had clouded Booker’s face before they left Théo and Émile. “Nicky…” Andy starts hesitantly, like she doesn’t want to know the answer to the question she’s about to ask. “Is there something going on that I don’t know about?”

Nicky’s silent for a moment—one that lasts far too long for her liking—before he finally meets her eyes. “After you left, we found out from Booker why ASE is getting involved,” he says, mouth pressing into a thin line. “The boys can’t go home—at least not with Booker, not while the police have an open inquiry on Léa’s death.”

All of the air punches out of Andy’s chest. “What do you mean? They can’t go with us?”

“Joe and I have to take them after they’ve been discharged, at least for a little while,” Nicky says, slipping into that painfully-even doctor’s voice she’s heard him use before. “ASE wants to look into if they’ve been exposed to any of the abuse in the house, even indirectly, and they want Théo and Booker in therapy as well.”

“They can’t do this!” Andy chokes, panic bubbling up inside her once more. “Those kids need to be with Booker!”

“I know they do, but it was either us or a foster family.” As steady as his voice is, Nicky’s eyes are glassy and rimmed in red as he quietly explains, “The only reason they’re letting me and Joe take them is because we’re the listed guardians in Booker and Léa’s will, and even then, it still took a lot of convincing.”

She stares at her friend, trying to force the knot in her stomach to untwist as she processes the devastating blow. “Do the boys know they’re staying with you and Joe yet?”

“Booker told them, but Émile doesn’t really understand what it means right now,” Nicky murmurs. “Théo had another meltdown afterwards, but we finally got him to understand that Booker needed time to heal and rest before he was ready to take care of them. It was the only thing we could come up with.”

Andy buries her head in her hands, fighting back more furious tears that come creeping into her eyes as she snarls, “Léa fucked up these poor kids so much. I really thought she wasn’t going to do anything to the boys because I know she loved them, but then she goes and drugs them before fucking killing herself right in that fucking car.” Her fingers clench in her hair and she’s unable to stop the shuddering breath that catches in her throat. “Théo’s going to have nightmares for the rest of his life.”

A heavy silence falls over the chapel, neither of them able to find words of solace for this.

But finally, after a few minutes, Nicky looks over at Andy and says, “At least none of the boys saw her do it. From what Théo’s said, she was already gone by the time he woke up.”

A broken, incredulous laugh snares itself in Andy’s throat as she lifts her head. “Is that supposed to be any fucking better?”

“No, but it’s a reminder that it could have been so much worse, Andy,” he snaps back sharply. “We could have been making funeral plans for the boys instead of foster arrangements. I will gladly accept the miracle we were given.”

The words feel like a punch to the gut and shut her up immediately. Andy’s breath hitches with every strangled inhale, no matter how hard she tries to steady it, and her heart slams so hard against the center of her sternum that it feels like it might just break through. She can barely swallow down the lump in her throat long enough to let the words pass, but somehow the quiet apology finds its way out.

“I’m sorry, Nicky,” Andy croaks, unable to look him in the eye. “I didn’t mean to—”

“I don’t need an apology from you, Andy, but I don’t want you to lose sight of what we still have,” he says candidly, though Nicky’s voice is gentle as always. “Joe and I are barely keeping it together and I can’t imagine how hard this all has been for you.”

“And yet I still fucking ended up running when it got too hard,” Andy mumbles, still not quite sure if the sick feeling churning away in her stomach is nausea or guilt. “I just couldn’t bear to see JP like that and I just fucking left Booker behind.”

One of Nicky’s hands finds hers—broad palm and sturdy fingers wrapping around her like a safety net. “You know, I was a little surprised you ended up here,” he says. “You never struck me as particularly religious—no offense.”

A sharp laugh punches out of her chest as she says, “I actually grew up Orthodox if you can believe it.” Nicky raises an eyebrow in surprise and all Andy can do is give a conciliatory shrug. “It’s true. Three-hour Mass every Sunday from as early as I can remember. But this is the first time I’ve been anywhere like this in almost two decades.”

He studies her silently, that careful, intense gaze catching everything from the tightness in her shoulders to the way Andy clenches her jaw, still staring straight ahead of her. But Nicky’s voice is soft and almost excruciatingly gentle when he finally asks, “Do you want to talk about it?”

Andy chews on the inside of her cheek, wondering how much of her past she’s willing to unbury. It doesn’t matter that it’s been twenty years since she’s spoken to her family and it doesn’t matter that she’s known Nicky for almost half that time and knows he’d never break confidence.

It’s still raw and tender in her heart—even after all this time.

“I don’t know,” Andy mutters, picking at her still-sore cuticles absentmindedly. “Typical Greek family, typical overbearing, religious parents who have your entire life planned out for you the moment you’re born a girl. Marriage, kids, church. That seemed like those were the only things that I was supposed to care about. My sister Evangelia bought into it, but once I hit sixteen or so, I began to realize how suffocating it was.”

“I’m surprised you lasted that long,” Nicky teases lightly.

She nods distractedly, barely catching the joke as she stares at her lap. “I wanted so much to be like my sister—to just be ‘normal’—but it never happened, no matter how hard I tried,” Andy says quietly, voice thick. “And then when I was eighteen, my parents found out I was bisexual and it all blew up in my face. They didn’t want anything to do with me after that.” She scrubs her palms over her jeans with a heavy sigh. “We haven’t spoken since.”

The chapel falls silent and she startles when a hand eventually touches her knee, Nicky’s voice soft as he says, “I’m sorry that happened to you, Andy. I know how hard it can be.”

They’re not just empty words either. After numerous late-night drunken ramblings from Joe, Andy knows exactly how strained Nicky’s relationship with his family became when he came into the picture. But she’d be a liar if it wasn’t a small comfort to know she wasn’t alone in this.

“Thanks,” Andy mumbles, sniffing back salty tears. “I don’t think about them a lot, but—it’s been a hard fucking day. And I keep wishing I had my mom here to just tell me what to do because I have no goddamn clue what I’m supposed to be doing with the boys.”

Nicky’s brow furrows and his head tilts a little in confusion. “Andy, you’re…you’re doing just fine with them.”

“They just lost their mom, Nicky,” she says, desperation creeping into her voice. “In what might be the worst way possible. I love Booker and I love those kids, but I didn’t expect to have to be their fucking mother.” The words hurt to say out loud but Andy’s been running from the truth for far too long. “I didn’t expect for it to all be on me.”

“Joe and I didn’t expect to have to take them in once ASE got involved,” Nicky says, “but we’re going to make it work because that’s what the boys need. This entire situation blindsided all of us—you, me, Joe, even Booker—but there’s no other option.” He squeezes her knee encouragingly, but the sentiment rings hollow in Andy’s spiraling anxiety. “I know it’s new for you, but you just—”

She lets out a sharp groan of frustration as she pulls away from Nicky, burying her head in her hands again. “It’s not that! It’s just—” Andy looks up at the ceiling, fighting back a creeping sob. “You don’t understand…”

“At least let me try,” Nicky pleads, sounding almost as defeated as she feels. “You don’t have to do this alone.”

Andy’s vision goes blurry again as she stares at the orange glow of the sunset streaming through the stained-glass windows. She sniffs quietly, blinking back tears as she asks, “Did I ever tell you about my ex, Quỳnh?”

Nicky shakes his head, voice calm and painfully even as he murmurs, “No, you haven’t.”

“We met right after I graduated and I honestly thought I was going to be with her forever,” Andy says, staring at the reflections of light and shadows that stream across the empty pews. “But Quỳnh wanted a family—wanted kids—and the thought of being forced into that same empty life that my parents wanted for me just made me sick. We fought about it for years until it finally got to be too much for her and she just left.”

A hot tear burns its way down her cheek and she can’t quite wipe it away fast enough for Nicky not to notice.

“That’s why I’m so fucking scared of being the only mother the boys have,” she continues. “Sometimes I’m worried that I’m still the same person who was so afraid of being a parent that I threw away a perfectly good relationship. That I only love the boys because I love Booker.”

Nicky’s face falls a little, brow furrowing in stunned confusion. “Andy, you have to know that’s not true…”

“I know it’s not true, but I’m fucking terrified of not being enough for these kids—especially after everything they’ve been through,” Andy admits, feeling far more exposed than she had ever imagined she’d be. “What if I was just never meant for this?”

Nicky’s quiet for a moment before offering her a reassuring smile. “If you didn’t love those boys all on their own, all of this wouldn’t be so hard on you,” he says, words a gentle balm for the aching parts of Andy’s heart. “And, at the end of the day, you’re here for them—unconditionally. Isn’t that enough proof?”

It should be enough. God knows Andy wants it to be enough.

She had known her life would never be the same the moment she kissed Booker that first night six months ago, but this was a far bigger change. Now, she was filling the hole Léa left behind instead of adding to the boys’ lives. In a single second, Andy had gained a family she never expected to ever want—and she still doesn’t trust that the fear is stemming from the knowledge that she can’t imagine any other way forward and not that it happened in the blink of an eye.

“And for what it’s worth,” he adds, nudging her with his elbow, “I think you’ll be a great mom.”

A weak laugh catches in her throat as Andy wipes her face again. “Well, the bar has been set exceptionally low in this case,” she mutters grimly. Andy knows she’s not going to be perfect, but she’d never come close to putting the boys through anything like Léa did—never in a million years—and maybe Nicky’s right. Maybe that’s enough.

“So…what do you want to do now?” Nicky asks, raising his eyebrow as he looks over at Andy. “Do you need more time or are you ready for this?”

Motherhood. Marriage. Healing. Life. All of it.

She takes one last deep breath to center herself before she meets her friend’s gaze.”I think I need to go back upstairs, Nicky. I think I need to be with Booker and the boys.”

There’s no question of if she’s sure, no other reassurance needed as Nicky pushes himself up from the pew and holds out his hand. “Then let’s go.”

Chapter Text

“Are you sure he’s not mad at me?”

Nicky looks over at her, eyes full of earnest sincerity as he squeezes her hand reassuringly. “Andy, I promise Booker’s not upset. I don’t think he could ever truly be mad at you.”

Andy stares at the door, chewing a hole on the inside of her cheek as she tries to steady her nerves. She’s still a little groggy from the accidental nap she had in the chapel, the crick in her neck still twinging with every shift in movement, but she’s still just more anxious than anything else.

Anxious about seeing the boys again, anxious about seeing Booker again. 

Anxious for all of this to be over.

But she has to step up and put her own needs to the side, so Andy takes a deep breath and pushes the door open without wasting another precious second.

The hospital room is full of quiet conversation—Dr. Moreau and Nile talking to Booker as he sits in the corner with Émile tucked tight in his arms while Joe reads a book to Théo on the chair next to the empty crib.

The four-year-old glances up at her, eyes lighting up as he excitedly tugs on Joe’s sleeve. “Tonton, look! It’s Tatie!” Théo looks over his shoulder towards his father, exclaiming, “Papa, you were right! Tatie did come back to see us!”

Booker’s head snaps over at his son’s words, his eyes wide with relief as Andy offers him a gentle smile before she goes to crouch at Théo’s side. “You know I can’t stay away from you for too long, Bug,” she teases, ruffling the boy’s sandy curls. “My poor heart just couldn’t take it.”

Théo beams at her, clutching his beloved snail blanket tight to his chest. “And you came at the best time ever too, Tatie,” he says, barely able to contain his excitement. “The doctor told Papa they’re going to bring JP down to be in our room too, since I don’t need to be in my bed right now!”

Andy’s breath catches in her chest and she looks up at Joe in surprise. “Wait, really?”

Joe nods, glancing at Théo out of the corner of his eye before forcing an easy-going smile across his face. “Yeah, Jean-Pierre’s doing a lot better—isn’t he, T? Dr. Moreau said he might even get to go home tomorrow afternoon.”

Théo’s amber eyes go even wider and he shushes Joe quickly before wrapping his hand around her arm. “Tatie, did you know that me, Mimile, and JP get to have a sleepover at Tonton Joe and Zio Nicky’s house after the doctors say we’re better?” he asks in a hushed voice, like he doesn’t want to be overheard. “But just until Papa isn’t sick anymore.”

Andy plasters a careful smile on her face as she murmurs, “Zio Nicky did tell me that. I know your Papa wishes he could be with you, but I also know that your uncles are going to take really good care of you and your brothers.”

The four-year-old’s grip tightens and there’s a slight waver in his little voice as Théo says, “But Tatie, if Tonton and Zio are with us, that means that nobody’s there to take care of Papa.” His other hand tightens around his blanket, clutching the beloved keepsake to his chest as tears suddenly rise in his eyes. “Who’s g-gonna take care of h-him?”

Her brow furrows as Andy reaches out and gently cups Théo’s face, brushing a stray tear away with her thumb. “I’m going to take care of him, okay? I won’t let anything happen to your Papa, Théo.”

The boy’s breathing hitches and Théo stares at her in silence for a moment before he asks, voice barely a whisper, “Does that mean he’s safe now?”

Andy’s heart drops into her stomach and she looks up at Joe, the sudden devastation on his face mirroring the agonizing realization on her own.

He knows.

Booker had sworn up and down that the boys were heavy sleepers, that he took the brunt of the abuse to keep Léa from raising her voice loud enough to wake them during nightly arguments, had lied through his teeth about every injury to his sons to keep them from the truth—and Andy believed it had worked.

But now, there’s no way to pretend Théo doesn’t know—not after that single, innocent question.

Andy swallows around the lump in her throat and nods, murmuring gently, “Your Papa is going to be very safe now. I won’t let anything happen to him, Théo.”

All of the air punches out of her chest as Théo suddenly slams into her, wrapping Andy in the tightest hug she’s ever had. His little fingers tangle in her shirt, face buried in her shoulder, and all Andy can do is envelope Théo in return just as she had done so many times with Booker in the four-year-old’s absence.

“Thank you, Tatie,” Théo whispers, so soft that Andy’s barely able to hear it.

“Anything for you, Bug,” she says, pressing a soft kiss to his head. She can feel the shuddering in Théo’s tiny body begin to settle and after the dream she had in the chapel, Andy can feel her own anxiety receding.

Théo was okay. Émile was okay. Jean-Pierre was okay. This nightmare was over.

She feels a foot nudge hers and when Andy looks up at Joe, he tilts his head over to Booker. Booker, who’s trying his best to focus on what Dr. Moreau and Nile are telling him. Booker, who keeps glancing at her out of the corner of his eye.

Booker, who deserves more apologies than Andy could ever give.

“Hey Théo, I’m going to go talk to your Papa for a minute, okay?” Andy murmurs, kissing Théo’s forehead once more. “You go sit with Tonton Joe and I’ll be back in a little bit.”

Théo gives her one last wide-eyed pleading look like he doesn’t want her to leave just yet, but finally crawls off her lap and back into Joe’s—tucking himself into his uncle’s arms as he reaches for the phone.

Andy can feel Booker’s gaze on her from the moment she pushes herself up from the floor, her fiance’s relief almost palpable as she crosses the hospital room. Dr. Moreau excuses herself quietly and Nile steps back to give them space as Andy approaches, but she can still feel the social worker watching them out of the corner of her eye.

“Hey, Book,” Andy murmurs as she kneels beside his wheelchair, fingertips brushing clandestinely against the back of his hand.

Booker forces out a thin, shaky smile. “Hey yourself,” he mumbles, thumb catching her index finger and curling around it as if that would be enough to keep her close by. “Thanks for coming back.”

“Sorry for leaving in the first place,” she shoots back. Booker opens his mouth but Andy knows exactly what he’s going to say and cuts him off quickly, “I know you said I don’t have to apologize for anything but, while you may not need to hear it, I needed to say it.”

She doesn’t want their relationship to be like his marriage to Léa. She doesn’t want to create a life where she can hurt Booker without having to apologize for it. Andy doesn’t want a world where she doesn’t have to own up to any consequences.

They’re all moving forward and this is part of it.

Booker reads between her lines, nodding stiffly as Émile shifts in his lap, stirring awake. He looks down at the groggy two-year-old, brushing the toddler’s hair out of his face as he says, “Bonjour, mon coeur. Welcome back to the world.”

Émile blinks up at his father before turning to Andy. “Tatie?” he babbles, voice hoarse from sleep as he rubs at his eyes. “Where you goed, Tatie?”

Andy shakes her head and squeezes the toddler’s hand when Émile reaches out for her. “I just had to do some stuff, but I’m back now.”

“I thirsty, Papa,” Émile suddenly mumbles, snuffling back into Booker’s chest. “Want milk.”

Booker shifts his son closer and says, “You can have some milk. We just need to—”

His words cut off sharply as the door opens and two nurses carefully maneuver a crib into the hospital room.

A heavy, relieved exhale catches in Andy’s chest when she sees Jean-Pierre awake and upright, thoroughly occupied with the amber eyes on the stuffed bunny in his hands. The breathing tubes are gone, no sign they were ever there aside from the slight red rash from the tape lingering on his sunburnt cheeks.

Théo immediately tries to scramble out of Joe’s lap to greet his youngest brother, but hangs back as Joe leans down to whisper quietly in his ear—the four-year-old looking at his father worriedly.

“Andy, can you—can you hold Émile?” Booker asks, and Andy can hear how hard he’s trying to keep his voice steady. “I just—I just want to—”

She reaches down, scooping the toddler up under his arms and tucking him into her chest. “I’ve got him, Book,” Andy says as Émile wriggles into a more comfortable spot, cheek pressed against her sternum. “Take as much time as you need.”

Booker stares up at her for a moment, love spilling over his face like a flood, before turning back to the nurses as they secure Jean-Pierre’s crib. “Can I…Can I hold him?” Booker asks quietly, like he’s still not sure he’s allowed to even ask. His eyes flood with tears when JP looks up, his youngest son finally seeing him for the first time and immediately babbling in a tiny, hoarse voice. “Please,” Booker begs, looking at Dr. Moreau and Nile desperately. “Even for just a minute.”

The nurses look to the head doctor for approval and Andy feels a rush of relief run through both her body and Booker’s when Dr. Moreau nods.

A crackling squeal escapes Jean-Pierre when a nurse carefully picks him up, the stuffed rabbit immediately abandoned as he reaches for his father. Booker chokes on a sobbing laugh and carefully takes hold of his youngest son, tucking JP against his chest as the one-year-old grabs at his nose and beard.

Andy can hear him whispering some soft, tender words in French in Jean-Pierre’s cheek but she can’t quite make out the words. Then again, it doesn’t really matter what Booker’s saying—she can hear the relief in his voice all the same.

JP gurgles softly, leaning in to press his mouth against Booker’s cheek in a wet kiss, and a sharp sob catches in Booker’s chest. “I’m so glad you’re alright,” he murmurs, pressing half a dozen gentle kisses to the infant’s dark curls. “God, I was so worried.”

The only reply he gets is a string of babbling sounds from JP but, for the first time since Booker had shown up on her doorstep, Andy begins to think they might be okay.

Their family was back together.

~~~

They spend the next two hours with the boys, loving on all of them as much as they physically can, but the moment Booker almost accidentally nods off mid-sentence—JP nearly slipping from his grasp—they finally make the decision to leave.

Every goodbye hurts more than the last and Andy’s barely in one piece by the time they walk out the door.

The hallway is eerily quiet as she pushes Booker to the elevator—nothing but the soft squeaking of the wheels against the linoleum floor and Blanchet’s soft footsteps beside her. Her chest feels heavy as Booker exhaustedly reaches up to wrap a hand around hers, thumb stroking over her clenched-tight knuckles.

Andy wishes that the boys were here, wishes that she had any idea when they would be reunited, but there’s nothing she can do about it. She has to leave just like Booker does.

They stop at the elevator doors, Blanchet reaching out to press the lower button. Andy looks up, watching the numbers slowly tick up towards their floor as Booker squeezes her hand again.

“Capitaine?” he croaks, voice weak with exhaustion as he looks up at the police officer. “Before we go, I want to see her.” Andy’s head spins at Booker’s words—air rushing out of her lungs as the elevator dings, doors opening. Blanchet looks down at him, brow furrowed in reservation, but Booker stays the course as he repeats, “I want to see her. I want to see Léa.”

Blanchet pauses, jaw clenching before he scrubs a hand over his mouth. His gaze flits up to Andy and all she can do is shake her head imperceptibly—a silent plea to turn down Booker’s request.

Please don’t let him do this, she wordlessly begs, eyes desperate. He’s not ready.

But the captain just sighs, reaching out a hand to stop the elevator doors from closing. “I can take you to the morgue, but Andromache has to wait outside—understood?”

“I understand,” Booker murmurs, flinching when Andy shifts her hand out from underneath his.

The elevator is dead silent as they ride all the way to the basement and Andy barely realizes she’s holding her breath the entire time until it slows to a stop and she lets out a sharp exhale. As much as she doesn’t want to do this, she knows she has to. She’s already run once and Andy knows she can’t abandon Booker like that again.

But it still doesn’t stop the damage her heart takes over the fact that they have to do this at all.

If she was in Booker’s place, Andy would have closed that chapter the moment she knew her abuser was dead. She can’t wrap her head around Booker needing to see Léa’s body—not after what she’s done to him, not after what she did to the boys—and Andy can’t bring herself to ask for an explanation.

Just the mere thought that the man she loves might actually be grieving a wife that never loved him is too much to bear.

Captain Blanchet leads them down a maze of hallways before stopping outside a door at the end of the labyrinth. He glances through the glass window on the steel door and puts a hand up as he says, “Give me a moment to speak to the mortuary attendant. Sébastien, I’ll come get you when you’re able to view the body.”

Booker nods silently before looking to Andy for reassurance. But she can’t quite give it—not right now—as she drops her gaze down to the linoleum floor and clenches her jaw tight to keep back any hurtful words.

Blanchet seems to catch the tense moment but graciously says nothing, just knocks on the door twice before pushing it open and disappearing inside the morgue.

Andy can hear her own heartbeat thudding in her ears—can feel it slam against her sternum in a sharp pang when Booker softly murmurs her name. “Andy—”

“It’s fine,” she mumbles, cutting him off quickly. “It’s fine, Book.”

The words come out sharper than she means them to, but Andy can’t take them back once they leave her lips. Out of the corner of her eye, she catches Booker’s uninjured hand wrap around the cast on his other wrist, thumb absentmindedly tracing the small heart on his palm, and immediately feels that guilt come flooding back through her bloodstream.

Here Booker was, just trying to do the right thing and give himself one final goodbye, and Andy was too busy being jealous of a dead woman to realize how hard this was for him.

“You don’t have to stay, you know,” Booker mumbles, voice shaking around the edges of his words. “I can have Blanchet take me back upstairs when I’m done. You can wait in the lobby until—”

“I’m staying,” Andy says, throat as tight as her words are. “I’ll be out here as long as you need me.” She wishes he’d reach for her hand again—tells herself she wouldn’t pull away this time—but Booker just nods silently, tracing that heart once more.

The heavy metal door creaks open, hinges squeaking as Blanchet’s worn face appears. “Sébastien? You can come in when you feel ready,” the officer murmurs gently.

Booker lets out a heavy, trembling exhale as he nods, pushing herself up on unsteady legs. He sways a little from exhaustion but squares his shoulders before following the captain through the open door.

Andy listens to his receding footsteps, hears the quiet, somber voices fade into unintelligibility as the door closes, and tries to think about anything other than Léa lying on a metal table on the other side—body shrouded with far more dignity than she deserved. She stares at a scuff in the linoleum, forcing that anger back down. This wasn’t Booker’s fault and Andy had no reason to blame him for Léa’s selfish choices, but she’s tired and emotionally drained and just despises anything about this situation.

It wasn’t fair. None of it was fucking fair.

She takes a deep breath and raises her head, forcing her gaze through the window and into the morgue itself. If Booker had to look in order to put this behind him, Andy would be a coward if she couldn't do the same.

Her heart begins a slow, painful descent into her stomach as she sees Booker standing in the middle of the room, staring down at the body on the metal table in front of him. Léa’s eyes are closed, a white sheet draped over her body from the chest down, and even through the glass of the window, it’s unsettling how dead she looks.

Not sleeping. Not peaceful. Just…dead.

Booker’s shoulders sag low, as if the weight of the entire world was resting on top of him and him alone, and his face seems aged beyond his forty-two years as he stares down at his wife.

Andy’s vision blurs with tears as his weary gaze hovers over Léa’s arms and the jagged gashes carving down from elbow to wrist. Andy almost expects Booker to touch her, to show any sign of the anger and hurt she knows he feels, but he just stands there—numbly taking in the scene in front of him.

She’s not sure how much time passes—it could be seconds, minutes, or hours—but Booker remains frozen at that table, seemingly unable to move.

Then, finally, his chest collapses as a heavy, inaudible exhale spills from his lips and he takes that last step up to the table. He raises his uninjured hand and there’s no panic, no hesitation, no tremble at all as he brushes Léa’s dark curls back from her face before gently resting his palm on her forehead in an almost tender touch.

There’s no malice, no despair, no relief at all in Booker’s face—not from what Andy can see.

He just looks…defeated.

As if even though Léa was gone, even though the danger was over and the boys were safe, Booker still doesn’t consider himself the victor.

As if he lost just as much as he had gained with his freedom.

Booker’s hand lingers there even as his lips move, words too far away for Andy to hear, but the moment he steps back, that last touch connecting him to Léa disappears. Andy turns her back to the door as the mortuary assistant tucks Léa’s arms back under the sheet and pulls the white fabric up over her head.

It was finally over.

Andy listens to Captain Blanchet’s voice grow closer and the click of the doorknob as it opens, and steadies herself when she hears her name. “Andy?”

The floor drops out from underneath her as she turns around to see Booker standing in front of her. He curls his shoulders in on himself and his hand twitches out for hers—a desperate, pleading look in his eyes. The words seem caught in his throat as he opens his mouth, voice silent and strangled, but Andy hears them anyway.

“Come here, Book,” she whispers, reaching for him with open arms.

A short, sharp exhale punches out of Booker and he immediately staggers forward into her embrace, wrapping both arms tight around her waist as Andy laces hers around his neck. She can hear his stuttering, staccato breath as he buries his face in the crown of her head—can feel Booker’s racing heartbeat boring its way into her own chest—but they don’t exchange a single word.

They just exist in this one quiet moment, wrapped up in the safe harbor of each other’s arms.

Andy closes her eyes, chin hooked over Booker’s shoulder, and cradles the back of his head, carefully avoiding the tender swelling from the fall. She can feel her lover’s heartbeat begin to steady, can feel his breathing even out as the cutting grief finally begins to recede, but she still doesn’t let Booker go. She’ll stay here like this for as long as he needs her to.

Finally, after a few seemingly-endless minutes, Booker lets out a heavy sigh—voice thick with exhaustion as he croaks, “I want to go home, Andy.”

She pulls back just enough to cup his cheek and kisses the corner of his mouth gently. “Then let’s go home, Book.”

Andy can feel herself fading on the ride to her apartment—Captain Blanchet generously offering to drive them back—and she knows Booker’s barely hanging on as well. His eyelids sag, unable to fully stay awake as they leave the hospital parking. She watches his head jerk forward a few times, as if sleep was overtaking him without his consent, but he never once lets go of her hand.

He keeps their fingers intertwined even as the car twists and turns through the streets of Marseille.

“Mademoiselle Freeman will arrange visitation with your children, Sébastien,” Captain Blanchet says, breaking the silence as gently as possible at the first red light they hit. “I will also be reaching out with more information as the inquiry into your wife’s death continues.”

Booker nods, scrubbing weakly at his eyes with his free fingertips as he mumbles, “Merci, Capitaine. For everything you’ve done today.”

Blanchet makes a short, gruff sound in the back of his throat, but Andy still catches the poignant look in the officer’s eyes in the rearview mirror. “Simply doing my duty,” the older man says, turning back to the road as the traffic moves once more. “I’m just glad we found your sons in time.”

There are a few perfunctory handshakes once they arrive at Andy’s apartment building—Blanchet quietly slipping her a contact card once he realizes Booker’s too exhausted to do anything more than thank him again—but suddenly Andy’s watching the black sedan pull away from the curb and she realizes that they’re finally alone.

No more doctors, no more police, no more family.

It’s just them.

“Come on, baby,” Andy murmurs, tugging Booker towards the same door where all this chaos and heartbreak had first begun almost twenty hours ago. “Let’s go upstairs.”

The elevator is just as quiet as the drive was, Booker slumped back against the metal rail as they ride up to the fourth floor. Andy closes her eyes, letting that last bit of tension seep out of her shoulders as the chime dings and the doors open.

She tries to ignore the mess of bloody towels and nitrile gloves from last night still sitting by the side of the couch as they make their way into her apartment. Andy kicks her own shoes off before carefully leading Booker to the bedroom, letting him collapse with a heavy thud down to the mattress. “Give me your boots,” she murmurs, kneeling at his feet and working on the laces when he shifts one foot forward.

Booker’s eyes go glassy with unrestrained devotion at the simple, loving gesture and his shoulders sag exhaustedly. “I love you,” he whispers, a single, weary tear carving down his cheek. “I love you so fucking much, Andy.”

A soft, tired smile tugs on her lips as Andy looks up at him. “I love you too.” She reaches for his hand, squeezing it once. “You better get used to hearing that a whole lot more, you know.”

A weak, wet laugh punches out of Booker as he nods, wiping his eyes. “Yeah, I know.” His chin wobbles and his brow furrows as he swallows thickly. “I’ve—I’ve been waiting a long fucking time for it.”

She pushes herself to her feet, meeting his mouth in a chaste kiss before slipping out of her jeans. “C’mere,” Andy murmurs. “Let’s get you out of these clothes.”

Booker lets out a low hiss of pain as he raises his arms above his head, allowing her to pull his shirt off. There are numerous bruises in various states of healing scattered across both sides of his ribs and along his shoulders and chest, and the only bit of comfort Andy has is the knowledge that this is the last time she’s going to ever have to see Booker look like this.

“Jeans too, babe,” she says, gently pushing him back to lie flat on the mattress.

His eyes flutter shut with a soft groan—Booker wearily lifting his hips as she tugs his pants down his thighs. “I’m so goddamn tired, Andy,” he rasps, words slurring with fatigue. “Feel like I got hit by a fuckin’ bus…”

Andy pulls her own shirt off before climbing up the bed to lie beside Booker. She brushes a loose strand of hair off his forehead and asks, “You want me to wake you up for pain meds or just let you sleep?”

Booker slowly shakes his head, eyes still closed. “Sleep…Can’t…can’t remember…” He suddenly trails off, voice going quiet as the pained furrow in his brow softens. His breathing deepens and slows before a soft snore spills from his gently parted lips.

A tired, amused grin tugs on Andy’s lips as she leans over and presses them to his forehead. “G’night, Book,” she whispers. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

Her head falls heavy to her pillow and sleep takes hold of her so quickly that Andy barely even registers closing her eyes.

Chapter Text

It’s almost noon when Andy wakes up again.

Booker’s still fast asleep in nearly the same position that he had passed out in and doesn’t stir when she carefully detaches herself. The bruises on his face have darkened, turning the shadows under his eyes black and blue, but he still looks more at peace than Andy’s ever seen him.

Her back cracks as she sits up, scrubbing the sleep from her eyes, and Andy lets out a soft sigh as she reaches for her phone. There’s a missed call from Nicky and a couple of texts from Joe.

9:48am — Nicky slept at hospital with the boys. T’s getting discharged this afternoon but they’re holding E and JP one more night for observation. Had trouble sleeping. Call me when you’re up

10:50am — going to stop by the house in an hour. Let me know if you want to come w. to get stuff for the boys

Andy checks the time. 11:40am. Fuck, if she’s going to get ahold of Joe, she’s going to have to call him soon. She glances back at Booker one last time before carefully climbing off the bed, grabbing a pair of underwear from the dresser, and slipping out into the living room.

Tucking her phone tight between her ear and shoulder, Andy steps into her underwear as she listens to the soft ringing. Finally, the line clicks and she hears Joe’s voice crackle over the line, “Wow, you really slept in, didn’t you?”

“In my defense, Booker’s still passed out.”

Joe’s silent for a moment before he says, “Well…that’s probably a good thing, if we’re being honest with each other. Did you get my texts from earlier?” Andy can hear his keys rattling in the background. “I was just about to head over to Booker’s house. Want me to come pick you up?”

Andy looks back at Booker’s sleeping form and scrubs a hand over her face. “Yeah, I was gonna…I should probably get some stuff for Booker,” she mumbles. “Clean clothes. Toothbrush. Shit like that.”

“Okay, well, I’ll be there in 10, so get dressed because I know you’re probably standing in the middle of your flat in just your underwear.” Andy groans and can’t stop the begrudging grin that tugs on her lips when Joe lets out a loud, self-satisfied bark of a laugh. “Hah, I was right, wasn’t I?”

“Oh, shut the fuck up and just come get me,” she grumbles, annoyance softening when she hears Joe chuckle. “And bring something for me to eat. I’m fucking starving.”

Andy finds time to leave a note for Booker in the extra five minutes it takes Joe to pick her up, pulling on a sweater and her boots as her phone buzzes away in the back pocket of her jeans. She races down the stairs and out the door, hopping into the waiting car right as Joe offers out a waiting croissant.

“Be careful eating it,” he says, pulling away from the curb. “If you get crumbs in the car, Nicky’s going to make you vacuum the entire thing.”

She rolls her eyes but still holds the pastry over the paper bag before taking a bite. “Y’know, you’re gonna have three kids in the backseat soon,” Andy mumbles through a mouth full of pastry cream. “Crumbs are inevitable.”

“Yeah, but you’re forty years old and can keep our car clean.” Joe’s grin falters a little as he glances over at Andy and she can see the slight flash of worry in his dark eyes. “How’s Booker?” he asks quietly. “Did he wake up at all when you left?”

Andy shakes her head, picking at a loose flake on the croissant. “He’s barely moved at all. Honestly, if he wasn’t snoring, I’d be a little worried that he—” Her voice cracks and she shoves the half-eaten pastry into the bag, a sudden rush of nausea floods over her. “He looks like fucking shit, though,” Andy says, looking at her lap first, then out the window—anywhere but Joe’s concerned face. “Worse than he did yesterday.”

Joe’s silent for a few minutes before he reaches over a single hand and squeezes Andy’s knee, letting out a heavy sigh. “It’s over now. That’s all that matters.”

They don’t talk much until they turn down the street and she catches sight of the white-washed stucco walls and bright blue door of Booker’s house. It’s been a few weeks since Andy was here last but, aside from the yellow placard taped to the front door, everything looks exactly the same.

“Are you sure we’re allowed to be here?” she asks as Joe carefully parallel parks on the street. “Didn’t Blanchet say this was still an active crime scene?”

“I got clearance from him this morning, right before I texted you,” he says, grabbing an empty weekend bag from the back seat. “He said that they had gotten the last photographs and evidence collection they needed early this morning.” Joe scrubs a hand over the back of his neck before looking back at the house. “He did remind me that they weren’t responsible for any cleanup, so I have no idea how bad it is in there.”

Andy nods numbly, forcing her stomach back down as she lets out a heavy sigh. “Well, we might as well get this over with.”

The street is quiet as they approach the house and part of her wonders if the neighbors have been talking. There’s no doubt everyone knows, not after the alert that had gone out when the boys were missing, and Andy hopes every single person that could hear Léa’s abuse and did nothing to help feels every bit of guilt they deserve.

“I’ve got a list on my phone of stuff Nicky thought I should grab, but if you see anything else the boys might want while they’re staying with us, just tell me,” Joe says distractedly, fumbling with his keys as he scrolls through his phone.

Andy makes a soft noise of affirmation before her throat suddenly goes tight at the sight of dark, rust-colored stains on the sidewalk.

They trail from the street a few houses down all the way to the front door—little droplets and dragging smears marking Booker’s path from where he had lost the boys. She slows to a stop, watching Joe inadvertently stand right over the worst bloodstains as he works at unlocking the door.

“Joe…”

The heaviness in her voice is enough to make her friend pause—Joe’s eyes wide with concern as he looks at her, brows furrowed. “What’s up? You look like you’ve seen a…” He trails off as he follows Andy’s gaze down, immediately recognizing the aftermath of Booker being dragged in the street. His face falls and his shoulders sag and Joe’s voice cracks as he says, “Jesus Christ…I knew about the car, I just…”

I just didn’t think it’d be this bad.

Andy knows exactly what he means because she’s thinking the same thing.

She braces herself for the worst after seeing the blood out on the sidewalk as Joe finally gets the front door unlocked, but nothing could prepare her for the damage inside.

Andy follows Joe as he steps over a dried smear of copper blood on the tiles just inside the door, barely half a meter into the house. There’s broken glass scattered across the entryway—broken picture frames and plates littering the base of every wall. They both take in the aftermath of the blow-up, frozen in the middle of the room.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Andy whispers, stomach turning in her gut when she catches sight of a pool of dried blood the size of a dinner plate at the bottom of the curved staircase. Right where Booker had landed after Léa had pushed him. “I know Booker said this wasn’t as bad as their honeymoon, but I’m starting to think he was lying…This place looks like a goddamn war zone.”

Joe’s shoulders are tight as he shakes his head and kicks a loose shard of ceramic across the floor. “That fucking cunt knew she wasn’t coming back here,” he spits furiously. “She had that whole plan in her head the moment she found out about you two. Léa didn’t give a shit about what happened to this house, to Booker, to the boys—not after she realized she was going to lose everything.”

Andy swallows thickly, taking in the overturned furniture and broken lamps in the living room, and the little spots and smears of blood that seem to be everywhere she looks. “Let’s just get what we came for and get the hell out of here,” she mutters, stepping over a loose wire as she follows Joe to the stairs.

As much as she had hoped that the destruction had been contained downstairs, it’s bled up into the master bedroom as well.

The entire room is in disarray—shoes and clothes strewn across the floor and bed—and Andy just stands in the doorway, shoulders sagging as Joe murmurs, “I’ll go pack up the boys.”

Andy nods silently, listening to his footsteps retreat down the hall.

She picks up Booker’s clothes, shaking little shards of glass free from the shirts, and imagines the way all of this started.

Léa probably searched through Booker’s phone like she always did when she wanted some accusation of infidelity to throw at him—even before Andy had drawn Booker into her orbit. But this time she had a red letter to burn him with, not just an imagined indiscretion, and the moment Booker had stepped into the room, Léa had lost it. Andy knows Booker would have begged her to stop yelling, pleaded to explain downstairs so the boys didn’t wake up, and—judging by the mess downstairs—he had gotten his wish. At least for a little while.

And then the worst of it. The slap. The stairs. The car.

She knew this was always going to have a hard ending, when Booker finally got a chance to leave like he so desperately wanted to, but Andy never thought it would be like this.

She tries to sort through the clothes Booker always wore when Léa was working late and they got to spend time together, but it all turns into a blur when Andy finds a smashed picture frame and a crumpled photograph at the foot of Léa’s side of the bed.

As she smoothes out the photograph, a sharp pang of jealousy catches her off guard when Andy realizes it’s a wedding photo—one of Booker and Léa’s first kiss as newlyweds.

The moment was hazy in her memory and Andy had done her best to block it from her mind, but it still makes her sick how happy Booker looked then—the corners of his eyes crinkling and a grin pulling at his lips mid-kiss.

But then the ever-present disgust comes flooding back up her throat when Andy thinks about Léa manipulating Booker’s giant heart and unwavering devotion and stealing the best years of his life. Maybe that was the reason Andy’s never felt guilty about wanting Booker, about kissing him and sleeping with him even though he was still married. All of her morals had gone out the window and Andy had never lost a single night’s sleep about it.

Andy wanders down the hall, still staring at the wrinkled picture in her hands, and finds Joe sitting in the middle of the nursery—all of Émile and Jean-Pierre’s clothes laid out on the floor around him.

“Look what I found,” she mutters, showing Joe the picture when he glances up at her.

His eyes darken and his jaw clenches. “You should fucking burn that thing,” Joe snarls. “That and every other goddamn picture of her and Booker together.” His hand clenches around one of Émile’s shirts and his knuckles go white. “God, I’m glad she’s dead so I don’t have to see her fucking face anymore. It was hard enough having to babysit the boys and hand them back to her with a smile,” he mutters bitterly. “Nicky was always better at it than I was.”

“It could be worse,” Andy scoffs. “You could’ve been like me and been fucking her husband.”

Joe folds the t-shirt in his hands and sets it in a pile at his knee. “Did you ever feel bad about it?”

She shakes her head. “No, not even a little bit. Especially because I knew everything was over between the two of them. I actually came over for dinner a couple weeks ago and sat down there at the table, forcing myself to play nice with Léa like I hadn’t glued together Booker’s shoulder where she had cut him with a steak knife the night before. Like I wasn’t going to kiss him when he walked me to the train.”

Andy traces over Booker’s face with her thumb, smoothing out the crumpled photograph as Joe goes back to the boys’ clothes.

“Do you think I’m a shitty person?” she suddenly asks. “For being able to come into this house and look Léa dead in the eye and not once feel guilty that I was sleeping with her husband?”

Joe freezes at the question, a pair of Jean-Pierre’s socks in his hand. Even though he doesn’t quite look at her, Andy can still see the swirling storm in his eyes as he stares at the clothing around him in silence. There’s an unreadable darkness on his face but for a painfully long minute, he says absolutely nothing.

Then, finally, he says in an almost disturbingly even voice, “I used to think about killing her, you know. About killing Léa.”

Andy blinks, the unexpected confession making her head spin. Her mouth opens and, even though she tries to force some confused demand for an explanation out, no sound escapes her throat.

“I hated her after what she did on their honeymoon, sure, but I never really started thinking about seriously doing something until Booker got out of prison,” Joe continues mechanically, brow furrowing just enough for the lines of frustration to appear on his forehead. “I’ve known Booker since I was eighteen and I’ll never forget the way that little light went out after he was inside. I saw what that place did to my best friend. I saw what Léa had taken from him and, God, I just couldn’t stop thinking about it once I started.”

“Joe…”

“I had it all planned out. I was going to wait until a day that Booker had to work so he would have an airtight alibi. I’d convince Nicky to let me drop him off at the hospital so I would have the car, just in case I needed it.” His jaw clenches and a shuddering breath makes his nostrils flare. “Most days Léa would drop the boys off at daycare and school before going back home to prep her cases so she’d be there alone for a couple of hours…It would’ve been so fucking easy.”

An unimaginable weight settles on her chest when Andy realizes just how much Joe has thought this out. But the fact that he’s talking about this like it's the most rational discussion in the world is what really scares her.

“I didn’t really think about how I would do it and that part didn’t really matter—I just knew that if it came down to it and I had the chance, I would,” Joe continues hollowly. “I thought about taking her phone and texting Booker—start some fight like Léa always did, maybe threaten to kill myself—just to make it seem more believable that she just up and left. That if anyone found her after…”

He scrubs a hand over his beard and finally tilts his gaze up, meeting Andy’s eyes with unflinching steadiness. There’s no remorse, no guilt—not for this.

“I told myself that Nicky would understand. That he would lie to the police and say whatever he needed to cover my ass. And, shit, even if someone found out and I went to prison, I knew it would’ve been worth it because Booker and the boys would’ve been safe for once.” Joe swallows thickly before muttering, “Last night, after I got home from the hospital, I couldn’t fucking sleep—not even a little bit. I just laid there in bed, staring at the ceiling, and thought about how much I wished I had just fucking done it.”

Andy’s head spins and it takes her a minute to realize she’s barely taken a breath in the entire time Joe’s been talking.

“So if you’re asking me if I think you’re a shitty person, then my answer would be no,” he says, the weight of this secret visibly lifting off his shoulders. “Not any more than I am.”

And just like that, Joe goes back to sorting through the boys’ clothes, pulling out what he’s going to take and what will be left in unperturbed silence.

Andy stares at her friend for another moment, still trying to wrap her head around just how far the scoring burn of Booker’s abuse had reached. She had been so wrapped up in the injuries and the aftermath and trying not to fall too hard in love with someone she couldn’t have to realize Joe and Nicky had been in the path of destruction as well.

Léa had been poisoning all of their lives and Joe had wanted it to end badly enough to latch onto the unimaginable.

She’s not quite sure what to say—everything that comes into her head sounds plasticine and full of faked sympathy—so Andy says nothing at all.

It takes them nearly an hour to go through everything and unearth all of the important documents they’d need in the coming weeks, and neither of them says much to the other the entire time. It’s only when she packs up the last of Booker’s toiletries and heads downstairs to find Joe sitting on the second to last step, staring at the dried pool of blood on the floor, that Andy can find the strength to say anything at all.

“Are you ready to go?” she asks gently. Andy sits beside Joe when he doesn’t answer her or even look up, and nudges his shoulder with her own. “Joe?”

His eyes are glassy as he stares at the stained tile and Joe’s voice is thick with exhaustion when he finally says, “I don’t want Booker coming back here until I can get all this shit cleaned up.” His hand shakes a little as he scrubs it over his face. “Fuck, I don’t even want the boys coming back here at all—clean or not.”

Andy nods in silent agreement. “They won’t have to come back, I promise,” she murmurs, knowing exactly what she has to do once she’s done here.

The bloodstains and broken glass are shut into the house like a mausoleum to Booker’s abuse as they slip back out the front door, Joe fumbling with the keys on his ring. Andy watches his hand tremble and that heaviness comes creeping back when he pauses, letting out a slow, shuddering exhale.

She has to know. It’s going to eat her up inside if she doesn’t.

“Joe?” Andy asks—the question caught in her throat when her friend looks over his shoulder at her, eyebrow raised. “Why…Why didn’t you do it?”

“Léa was almost always pregnant,” he mutters, that same unflinching bluntness in his voice that had been there when he had first told her. “That’s the only fucking reason.” Joe shakes his head and turns back to the door, steadying himself enough to lock it with a resolute click of the latch. “I didn’t give a shit about her but I couldn’t do that to Booker.”

Andy knows that, as hard a truth as it is to stomach, it’s just that—the truth.

They were past the point of needing anything else.

~~~

By the time they get back from both the hardware store and furniture shop, it’s late in the afternoon but they find Booker still fast asleep—one arm thrown over to Andy’s side of the bed like he’d been reaching out for her in his dreams.

“Should we wake him up?” Joe asks, helping Andy carry the bags and boxes in from the hallway. “He’s been out since last night, right?”

“No, he told me to just let him be,” she replies. “I think this is the first good night’s sleep he’s had in a long time.”

Joe helps clean out the office, moving Andy’s desk into the one free corner of the living room, but has to leave when he gets the call from Nicky that Théo was finally getting discharged. “Want me to FaceTime you later?” he asks, screwing the lid back on the paint can. “I know Théo would love to see you two.”

Andy glances over towards the bedroom and sighs. “Normally I’d say yes, but…”

Joe nods, understanding her words. “You’ll call us.”

“Give all the boys a kiss for us both, though,” she says, giving him a quick hug. “Thanks for doing this with me.”

A soft smile tugs at Joe’s mouth when he looks around the empty room. “Text me pictures when you’re finished. I can’t wait to hear about Booker’s reaction—I think he’s going to love it.”

God, Andy hopes he’s right.

She gets the office painted, curtains hung, and the bed put together by the time the sun sets and Andy’s too exhausted to do anything more than microwave a frozen dinner and crawl back into bed with Booker.

At midnight she wakes up to Booker tugging on her arm, barely lucid as he begs for some water and Paracetamol. Andy helps him drink half a bottle of water before he sinks back into bed, dragging her into his arms the moment he can. Before she falls back asleep, she swears she hears Booker mumble that he loves her, but his voice is too quiet and slurred to make out the words.

Her alarm goes off at seven and Booker sleeps right through it.

There’s a picture from Joe of Théo snuggled up to him in his and Nicky’s bed with the caption ‘Had a nightmare last night and wanted his brothers. Sleepover with Tonton helped 😴’ on her phone when Andy gets up and she sends a quick, ‘Like father like son. Booker’s still out too’ back before starting on the room once more.

It takes her a while to put together the crib, swearing at the incomprehensible instructions more than she probably should, but it’s done by the time Andy hears slow, heavy footsteps come out of the bedroom.

“Andy?” she hears Booker croak from the living room, voice dry as she knows his throat probably is. “Where’d y’go?”

“I’m in here!” Andy calls, tightening the last screw and pushing her slightly sweaty hair back off her forehead.

Booker’s footsteps get closer before he finally appears in the doorway, scrubbing his uninjured hand over his bruised face. “Wha’ time’s it?” he mumbles before yawning stiffly. “Did Joe…” His voice trails off as he blinks awake fully, taking in the room and everything in it. Booker’s mouth falls open and his eyes go glassy as he rasps, “Andy…”

She offers a nervous smile as she pushes herself up from the floor and looks around.

The newly-painted room isn’t much, just a low, full-size bed for the two older boys in one corner and a crib for Jean-Pierre in another, but it’s a bedroom. They’ll get a little shelf later for books and toys and she knows it’ll feel less empty once they’re allowed to bring the boys home.

“Do you like it?” Andy asks, heart pounding in her chest. “I didn’t get any sheets for the bed because I figured it might be nice for Théo and Émile to pick them out, and I know Joe bought some crib sheets for the pack’n’play they got for JP.” She watches a single tear roll down Booker’s cheek and blinks back tears of her own. “I just…Joe and I went to your house and I know you probably don’t want to go back there and I don’t want you to feel like you have to just because of the boys…I wanted them to have their own space here so you could st—”

A sharp sob suddenly tears out of Booker’s throat, cutting off her rambling thoughts in an instant as he staggers to her and clasps Andy’s face between his hands. The hard fiberglass of his cast digs into her cheek but Andy barely even feels it as Booker kisses her hard on the mouth.

His bruised and swollen lips are dry and crack as soon as he kisses her—the sharp copper of his blood catching on her tongue—but none of that matters when Andy can feel Booker’s tears spill over onto her skin too.

“I love you,” he chokes into her mouth, refusing to break the kiss even as his hands shake around her face. “Fuck, Andy, I—God, I l-love you so m-much…” Booker’s breath catches as he grapples her closer and Andy wraps her hands around his wrists to keep him steady. “I d-don’t…I don’t know what I’d d-do without you…”

“You’ll never have to find out,” she murmurs, wiping a stray tear off his cheek with her thumb. “It’s you and me, Book—now and always.”

Chapter Text

“How have his headaches been?” Nicky asks, pouring her another cup of coffee

Andy shrugs, running her thumb over the rim of her mug as she watches Booker playing with Théo and Émile across the courtyard. He looks far more exhausted than he should, even though they’ve only been here two hours, but it’s the first time they’ve gotten to see the boys in person since they left the hospital four days ago and she knows Booker doesn’t want to waste a minute—tired or not.

“They come and go,” she mumbles, trying to keep her voice down as much as possible. Andy can feel Nile watching them out of the corner of her eye as the social worker takes notes from the corner and she doesn’t want to add to the report if she can help it. “It’s hard for him to get out of bed in the mornings, but they’re not that bad until something sets him off.”

Nicky’s mouth presses into a thin line and his brow furrows. “Do you have an appointment with a neurologist set up?”

“A neurologist, an orthopedic surgeon, and a psychiatrist.” Andy huffs out a bitter laugh and shakes her head. “Booker has more doctor’s appointments lined up right now than he’s had since he got together with Léa. And that doesn’t even include the fucking lawyers we still have to deal with.”

There’s been so much fucking paperwork between dealing with Léa’s death and Booker’s medical leave that Andy barely has time for anything else. The only things keeping her together is the fact that her boss is letting her take an extended leave of absence after she had come clean about the situation and the knowledge that Booker’s not the only one that has to be doing this.

“Are you at least taking care of yourself too?” he asks, worry creeping into his voice whether he means for it to or not. “I don’t want you to have a repeat of—”

“I’m fine, Nicky, I swear,” she promises earnestly. “I’ve got alarms set so Booker remembers to drink water and he always makes me drink some too. Plus we keep getting takeout delivered to my apartment without us ordering anything, which I’m pretty sure is your husband’s doing.”

A gentle smile crosses the Italian’s face as he takes a sip of his coffee. “That does sound like Joe,” Nicky murmurs softly as he turns back toward the sound of giggling across the courtyard. “God, it’s so good to see those two actually smiling for once. Émile just wants to be held by one of us and Théo’s mood has been all over the place. They really missed Booker.”

Andy watches Booker play with the boys—sees the way he always has to be touching them, as if to reassure himself that they really are there—and feels her throat go tight. “He missed them too,” she says, heart heavy in her chest when she catches her fiancé quickly brush away a stray tear before either child sees it. “More than he’ll even admit to me, I think…”

A door inside the house slams and Booker’s head snaps up, his hand quickly grabbing for Émile until Joe comes through the doorway, carrying Jean-Pierre in his arms.

Andy’s heart sinks as she watches the relief flood over Booker’s face, his body sagging when he realizes he doesn’t have to brace himself for a fight. He scrubs at the fading bruises and dark circles under his eyes and forces a thin smile across his face as he focuses back on Théo and Émile.

They can’t even have a single moment of peace.

“This little man got a clean bill of health,” Joe says, suddenly shaking Andy out of her thoughts as he sits at the table next to her. Jean-Pierre immediately squeals at the sight of her and reaches out for Andy, trying to wriggle his way out of Joe’s arms. “Okay, okay, I get it,” Joe says, handing the one-year-old over. “I’m clearly not the favorite around here.”

“Maïmoudáki mou!” Andy coos, kissing both of Jean-Pierre’s fat little hands when he wraps them around her fingers. “Mmmm, I missed you.”

He giggles, blue eyes sparkling, and it’s such a relief to see JP looking healthy again. The sunburn on his cheeks has faded into a rosy pink and the swelling in his face has gone down since Andy’s last seen him, but it’s the crooked smile that reminds her so much of Booker’s grin that eases her mind the most.

The little ray of sunshine amidst so many clouds.

Jean-Pierre babbles before dragging her finger into his mouth, gently gnawing on her knuckle with his two little teeth. Normally Andy wouldn’t let him chew on her like this, but he looks so content in her arms that it’s hard to tell him no.

“So, amore mio, Andy was just telling me about the takeout deliveries she and Booker have been receiving from a mysterious benefactor,” Nicky says, giving his husband a pointed look over the rim of his coffee as he takes a sip. “You wouldn’t happen to know anything about that, would you, Joe?”

Joe raises his hands in denial. “I have no idea who those could be from, but I’m glad someone’s looking out for them,” he says, sneaking a wink at Andy as he fights back a creeping smirk. “Wish someone would order me takeout.”

“If you manage to put all three boys to bed tonight, I’ll consider it,” Nicky says, rolling his eyes.

Andy looks up at the two men. “Has that been an issue with all of them?” she asks as she begins to bounce JP on her knees. “I know Théo was having a hard time the first couple of nights he was here, but you guys didn’t tell me the other two weren’t sleeping.”

“It hasn’t really been that big of an issue,” Joe shrugs. “Théo wakes up a couple times during the night because of a nightmare, but he’s been crawling into bed with Émile when that happens. It’s good that you have that single bed for the two of them because they don’t want to sleep any other way.”

A frown tugs on her lips for a brief moment before Nicky reaches over and puts a hand on her arm. “It’s going to get a lot easier once they’re back home with you and Booker.”

“What do you think, maïmoudáki?” Andy asks, suddenly draping Jean-Pierre back across her legs and tickling his tummy. “Would you rather be here with your uncles or me and your Papa?” JP squeals in delight, wriggling and giggling as his dimples appear. She grins, scooping him up and kissing his cheek as she says, “That’s what I thought. Don’t worry, you’ll be with us soon.”

“Have you guys figured out what you’re going to tell the boys about your relationship?” Joe asks gently, glancing back over at Booker. “Émile’s probably too little to understand or care, but Théo will notice if you two are sleeping in the same bed.”

Andy combs her fingers through Jean-Pierre’s curls absentmindedly and, after a moment of thought, shakes her head. “I don’t even know how we’d bring it up,” she says. “Léa just died and I don’t want to act like I’m trying to replace her.” JP tugs on her hands, trying to pull himself to his feet, and Andy helps him balance precariously on her thighs. “I just hope Théo understands that.”

“I think once he sees his dad happy for once and not constantly walking on eggshells, he’ll come around pretty quick,” Joe offers as reassuringly as he can. “Helps that you and Théo are pretty close already and you’re not just some stranger to him.”

Maybe that’s what she’s worried about the most—that this potential betrayal would come from someone Théo’s so close with.

“Just let it come from Booker and not you,” Nicky adds. 

Andy’s just about to shoot back that she’s not dumb enough to lead that conversation when a loud scream erupts from the opposite end of the patio, making them turn their heads.

“Mimile, stop!” Théo shouts angrily, suddenly clambering to his feet and roughly snatching the toy dinosaur out of his younger brother’s hand. “That’s not right! That’s not how you play this game!”

“Téo, mine!” the toddler wails, starting to cry when Théo thwarts his efforts to take the toy back. “Mine!”

Andy feels a little nag of panic flood through her when she sees Booker’s shoulders tighten as he leans over, exhaustedly trying to calm down his sons. “Nicky, take JP,” she whispers, trying to shift Jean-Pierre off her lap. “I need to go help—”

“I’ve got it,” Joe sighs, pushing himself up out of his chair as the boys’ bickering gets louder. “You stay with the baby.”

Booker’s trying his best to separate Théo and Émile with only one good hand, but Andy can see his breathing begin to quicken when Émile starts crying—can see his hand tremble as he murmurs gentle words in French to Théo.

But the older boy is having none of it, Théo stamping his foot and shouting, “NO! He’s not doing it right, Papa! He has to play it the way I said!” before suddenly hurling the toy at his father.

Andy scrambles to her feet as Booker cowers back, frantically shielding his head as the dinosaur slams into a nearby flowerpot, shattering the ceramic with a resounding crash. She doesn’t even have to ask Nicky twice—he just immediately takes Jean-Pierre the second Andy holds the one-year-old out to him, allowing her to race across the courtyard to Booker’s side.

He’s frozen in place, hunched over on his knees with his right hand wrapped around the back of his neck, and Andy’s heart drops into her stomach when she realizes how badly Booker’s shaking. She can’t hear anything but his hyperventilating breaths, coming so fast and so shallow that Andy’s not sure how he’s getting any air at all.

“P-Papa?” Théo stammers, eyes wide and cheeks already wet as he stares at his father in panic. “Papa, I’m—Papa, I didn’t m-mean…”

She sinks to her knees, hand hovering over Booker’s heaving back. “Book? Booker, you need to breathe…”

Théo reaches for his father’s shoulder but stumbles back when Booker flinches away at the touch, a horrified mix of confusion and guilt washing up over the four-year-old’s face. Tears flood his brown eyes and, before Andy can reassure him that he didn’t do anything wrong, Théo runs off towards the house, pushing Joe away as he goes.

“You stay here with Booker,” Joe says, quickly grabbing the still-crying toddler and tucking Émile into his side. “I’ll go deal with Théo.”

Andy nods, watching both him and Nicky hurry off into the house before turning back to Booker. She tries to ignore Nile’s watchful gaze from the corner of the courtyard as she crouches down beside Booker, resisting the overwhelming urge to comfort him with her touch. “Book?” Andy murmurs gently. “Booker, can you hear me?”

He doesn’t—can’t—answer her, eyes clenched shut and hand gripping his neck so hard his knuckles go white.

“It’s me, Book—it’s Andy. You’re safe with me, I promise, but I’m going to touch you now, okay?” Andy smoothes her hand over his back, a shuddering breath punching out of her chest when Booker lets out a low whimper. “It’s over. You’re not there anymore and you’re safe. Just breathe…”

It takes a while for him to come back, for Booker’s breathing to slow, but he eventually settles enough to croak, “An…Andy?”

“Yeah, I’m right here, baby.”

His body sags, forehead sinking to the patio stones as Booker finally releases the grip on his neck and fumbles for her hand. “I was…I c-couldn’t…” he chokes, voice on the edge of a sob as their fingers lace together. “It was s-so real…”

Andy presses her cheek to Booker’s shoulder and sighs. They had been warned of this—possible PTSD, flashbacks, intrusive thoughts—especially after everything Booker’s been through, but seeing it happen right in front of her hurts more than she thought it would. 

“I know it was, Book,” she hums, combing her free fingers through his hair. “But you’re safe and I’m right here, okay?”

The chair in the corner scrapes as Nile stands and tactfully heads inside while Andy curls around Booker protectively, shielding him as much as she can with her own body. She can barely stomach the fact that their best friends have to see Booker like this, let alone the social worker.

After almost twenty minutes, Booker’s finally able to get back on his feet—shoulders heavy as he heads inside to try and find Théo.

Andy trails behind him, fingers brushing gently against the small of his back, until she hears a soft, “Madame Mavros?” 

She looks over to see Nile standing just inside the back doors, her notebook and folder in hand, and tries not to let her body tense up. “You go find the boys, Book,” Andy murmurs, nodding at her fiancé reassuringly. Booker gives her a hesitant look but she squeezes his hand once to urge him forward. “I’ll catch up.”

He disappears into the living room towards the sounds of Nicky’s voice and Jean-Pierre’s babbling squeals while she approaches the younger woman suspiciously.

“What do you want?” Andy asks defensively, crossing her arms over her chest. “If you’re going to gloat and say that you were right and this is exactly why you had the boys taken from Booker, I swear to God, I’ll—”

“Andy, that’s not what I’m here for,” Nile cuts in quickly, her voice sharp as her shoulders square up. “That’s not what I was going to tell you.” Her face softens and her brow pulls toward the center of her forehead as she looks toward the living room. “I just wanted to let you know that I think Sébastien is doing an excellent job with his children, even with his…struggles.”

That initial fight she was bracing for fades away, Andy’s shoulders sagging.

“He loves those boys more than anything else in the world,” she says, “and I hope you see it now.”

Nile nods, a heavy look crossing her face. “I do. I got a chance to read through the transcripts of the police interviews from that night and sit down with Théo to talk about what happened before their mother took them, and I just…I just wish ASE had been able to intervene earlier.”

Andy shakes her head, a bitter laugh catching in her throat. “No offense, Mademoiselle Freeman, but you didn’t know Léa,” she says, trying to ease the bluntness as much as she possibly can. “It was always going to end like this.”

She turns from the young social worker but only manages a single step towards the living room before Nile says, “You’re doing a good job too, Andy—with Sébastien. I was watching you two and you were doing all the right things with him.” 

Andy freezes and can taste the saltwater that begins to creep down the back of her throat.

The first tear comes when she’s unable to ignore the sincerity in the other woman’s voice as Nile gently murmurs, “You’re going to be the thing that keeps this family together and I hope you know that.”

As hard as she tries to brush the stray tear away as discreetly as possible, Andy can still feel her cheeks flush hot when she turns around to face Nile. The younger woman has a soft smile on her face and Andy struggles to force one out in return. “Th…Thank you…” she whispers, trying to keep her voice as steady as she can. 

“You’re welcome.” Nile fusses with her notes for a moment before glancing at Andy again. “Just remember that I’m only here to help you guys,” she says. “I want to see my families succeed way more than I want to see them fail.”

Suddenly, Émile’s tiny voice comes blaring from the living room. “Taaaaaatie!”

They both laugh at the sudden interruption, Andy hooking her thumb over her shoulder. “I gotta—”

The social worker waves her off, saying, “It’s okay, go. I just wanted you to know that I was on your side. I’ll check in with you guys after Sébastien’s first psychiatrist’s appointment to see how it went—Monday, right?”

Andy nods, that last little bit of mistrust fading as she says, “Yeah, it’s Monday morning.”

Nile smiles at her again. “Great, I’ll talk to you then.”

It’s a settling thought—knowing they’re not all alone in this. That Andy and Booker aren’t left drifting in this sea of uncertainty with no one to throw them a life raft. They have Joe and Nicky. They have Captain Blanchet. They have Nile.

They’ll see it through.

Andy finds the living room empty but hears the soft echo of voices down the hallway and follows them to find Joe and Nicky crowded around a single door, holding JP and Émile in their arms. Booker, on the other hand, is crouched by the door with the heel of his hand pressed to his eye socket as he murmurs softly, “Ouvre la porte, s'il te plaît…Théodore, open the door.”

“Théo locked himself in the bedroom,” Nicky whispers as he leans in close to pass Jean-Pierre back to Andy. “We’ve tried to get him to open up, but he won’t—not even for Booker.”

She sighs, holding JP close and kneeling at Booker’s side. Jean-Pierre babbles and reaches out for his father’s hair as Booker mumbles, “I just want to talk to him. I just want him to know I love him.”

“Théo knows it, Book, I promise,” Andy insists, smoothing her palm over his hunched back. “He just needs some time.”

A shuddering breath punches out of his chest as Booker turns to look her in the eye. There’s heartbreaking desperation on his face and Andy wants nothing more than to wrap her arms around him when he croaks, “I don’t want to leave him, not like this.”

“You guys can come back tomorrow if you want,” Joe offers, Émile’s face pressed tight in the crook of his neck. “And if Théo wants to talk to you later, we can call you.”

Booker looks absolutely dejected at the idea of having to leave Théo when he’s like this, but they both know there’s nothing they can do that wouldn’t make an already shitty situation even worse. 

So, as much as they would rather stay, Andy and Booker say their goodbyes, kiss JP and Émile, and leave with the bedroom door still locked.

Chapter Text

Booker throws up twice after they get off the train from Joe and Nicky’s house when a headache sprouts up—the stress of the morning catching up with him.

Andy rubs his back as he folds over in the gutter, smoothing her palm up along his shuddering shoulders until the worst of his nausea is over and she can get Booker up and into her apartment building. She can’t get him to do more than swish some mouthwash around before Booker crawls into bed, immediately covering his face with a pillow to block the light.

“Want one of your pills?” she asks, sitting down on the edge of the bed and sighing when Booker makes some muffled noise of dissent. “Okay, well, I’ll let you sleep. Call me if you need me, Book.”

She moves to go but pauses when she feels a hand brush over her leg. Andy smiles tiredly when Booker squeezes her thigh gently and leans over to press a kiss to his shoulder.

For the next few hours, Andy tries to occupy herself with organizing the parenting books she’s ordered until she hears her phone rattle on the kitchen counter. Her brow furrows. Joe and Nicky wouldn’t call so soon after leaving their house unless it was an emergency and she can’t imagine who else would be calling right now. The buzzing stops but immediately starts back up again, and Andy slowly pushes herself to her feet.

She doesn’t recognize the number but picks it up with a confused, “Hello?”

“Madame Mavros? It’s Capitaine Blanchet,” the voice crackles over the phone. “I’m sorry to disrupt your day, but I’ve called Monsieur Le Livre six times and he hasn’t answered his phone. I was hoping you knew where he was.”

Andy winces and looks toward the closed bedroom door. “Booker’s—shit, sorry—Sébastien’s sleeping. Is everything alright?”

She can hear the hesitation in the officer’s voice as he says, “Yes, everything’s fine, there’s just something I need to discuss with him—something time-sensitive. Is it alright if I come to your apartment to speak with him this evening?”

She scrubs a hand over the back of her neck. “I can try and get him up. Can I ask what this is all about?”

Blanchet is silent for a moment before he simply says, “I’ll discuss it further when I arrive.”

The captain’s words open up some nagging worry in her heart and Andy can’t push it out of her mind, even as she reluctantly wakes Booker up from his deep slumber. “Capitaine Blanchet wants to come over and talk to you about something,” she murmurs, massaging her thumbs over her fiancé’s furrowed brow. “He didn’t tell me what it was about, but said he’d explain when he got here.”

Booker relaxes into her touch, the pained creases in his face slowly softening, and exhaustedly cracks one eye open. “Does it have to be today?” he croaks, curling around Andy’s body and burying his face in her stomach. “I just want to stay here with you, just like this.”

Andy combs her fingers through his hair and sighs. “I think it’s better if we get it over with now.”

It’s almost two more hours before they receive a call that Blanchet is on his way, but the moment it comes, Andy knows something is wrong.

The tension in the air is undeniable from the moment Captain Blanchet steps into her apartment, but what unsettles Andy the most is the way he can’t stop glancing at her—even as they sit across from one another in the living room.

She watches the officer’s grip tighten around his hat, trying not to look her in the eye and unable to stop staring all at the same time. Booker shakes Blanchet’s hand before sitting beside her on the couch, fingers brushing over the small of Andy’s back as he says, “Thanks for being able to come so late, Capitaine. I’m sure you’d rather not be here.”

Captain Blanchet forces out a strained laugh and waves Booker off. “My family is used to my long days. Nothing out of the ordinary.” His smile fades, though, when he finally meets Andy’s gaze for a brief moment before turning to Booker once more. “Monsieur Le Livre, I know you and Madame Mavros are…close…but if I could just—this might be better if you and I could speak privately for a few minutes.”

There’s something about his tone that makes Andy’s blood run cold. It’s so much like the moment before Blanchet had told them that Léa killed herself that she knows it can’t be anything good.

Her legs feel numb as she moves to stand—only for Booker to grab her hand protectively.

“Capitaine, Andy’s been at my side through everything my wife did to me and she’s going to be with me through everything that comes after,” he says, offering Andy a tender smile as she sinks back down to the couch. Booker squeezes her hand gently and, fuck, he looks so in love with her that Andy almost forgets about everything else. “Anything you need to say to me, you can say in front of her,” he continues, looking back at the officer.

But Andy feels that heavy dread creep into her heart as she catches Blanchet’s resigned stare, swallowing thickly when the captain lets out a heavy sigh.

“Very well. I received the report of your wife’s autopsy today, Monsieur Le Livre,” Blanchet begins, jaw set and shoulders tightly squared. He pauses, scrubbing a hand over his mouth as he shakes his head slightly. “I’m sorry, I’m not sure how to ask this, but…Sébastien, were you aware that Léa Allard was three months pregnant?”

Andy’s heart stops dead in her chest—hand involuntarily clenching around Booker’s.

A high-pitched ringing erupts in her ears as an invisible hand tightens around her throat. She can’t move, can’t breathe, can’t do anything but just sit there, frozen in shock, staring at Captain Blanchet like he had just slapped her in the face.

She tries to pull her hand free but feels Booker hold her tight, his voice coming like a far-off echo as he stammers, “Wh-What?”

“We’re running a DNA test right now,” Blanchet continues, avoiding Andy’s eyes, “but considering that your three other children are biologically yours…Unless you have reason to think that your wife could have been seeing another man?”

Andy’s vision blurs, dark spots dancing around the edges from lack of oxygen as Booker weakly croaks, “No…it’s…it’s going to be mine…”

A sharp rush of air cuts into her lungs and it takes everything for Andy not to just scream until her body gives out. She rips her fingers out of Booker’s grip and clenches both of her hands into fists to keep them from shaking. But it’s fucking useless because Andy’s entire body is shaking and she still can’t fucking breathe.

“I’m sorry you had to find out like this, but I thought the news would be better coming from me,” Captain Blanchet says, and Andy wants to choke out a laugh because how could this news come as anything other than a knife to her back?

Everything feels too big, feels too heavy, feels like it’s going to burst right out of her body when she feels Booker fumble for her hand again and it takes every bit of strength left in Andy’s body to stop herself from slapping him away. But she can’t stop the way she flinches, nausea washing up so fast it overwhelms her, and she can’t stop the pained sound that catches in her throat.

All this from one little touch from the man she loves.

“I know this…I know this is a difficult time,” Blanchet continues, “but when the autopsy is complete, Léa Allard’s body will be released. The Tribunal judiciaire de Marseille will contact you regarding permits and your wishes for her body.”

The ringing in Andy’s ears turns into a deafening roar when she hears Booker mumble numbly, “We’ll—I’ll make arrangements. I think…I think she had something in her will about what she wanted…”

Her stare burns a hole in the floor and, as much as Andy wants to run from the apartment, she can’t even get her brain to connect to her body long enough to breathe. All she can think about is how the last six months of her relationship with Booker have been a fucking lie and how the future she thought they’d have is crumbling right in front of her.

She can feel her body shaking and her vision blacks out at the edges when Captain Blanchet stands, hands still clenched around his hat. “I’m sorry that you had to receive the news like this, Sébastien, but I wanted it to come from me and not the Procureur de la République when you came for your wife’s body,” he says, glancing Andy’s way for a brief moment. “I’ll follow up if I need to get any more information from you, otherwise…”

Booker nods shakily. “I understand. Thank you for everything you’ve done for us, Capitaine.”

The officer’s footsteps echo in her apartment as Blanchet heads toward the door and Andy knows there’s no coming back from this. Every storm they’ve weathered has been the two of them against the world.

This is so much worse.

Andy flinches when the apartment door shuts and again when Booker touches her arm, shakily mumbling her name. “A-Andy…”

She shakes her head, the first tear cutting down her cheek. “Don’t.”

“Andy, please—” She can hear the desperation in Booker’s voice, can feel the way his hands shake as he tries to pet her hair, her shoulders—anything to try and get her to look at him. “Please just—just listen to me…”

“You fucking lied to me!” Andy shouts, smacking his hands away and standing so quickly that she knocks her knees into the coffee table. Booker recoils at the sudden movement and sound—hand flying up to protect himself from a blow that will never, ever come—but the betrayal cuts too deep and she can’t stop the words that come out of her mouth. “You’re a goddamn coward, Booker!”

He blinks, unable to look up and meet her burning gaze, and shakes his head minutely. “I didn’t—I didn’t mean—” Booker stammers before swallowing thickly. “I’m s-sorry…”

A sobbing laugh catches in Andy’s throat and she clenches her hands into fists at her side just to keep herself from throwing something. “You’re sorry?!” she asks incredulously, syllables breaking as her words crack. “Léa was three months pregnant and you’re fucking sorry?! I may not have any kids of my own but I know how math works.”

Booker clenches his eyes shut, face burning crimson out of shame, and Andy knows he doesn’t have a single excuse for what he’s done.

Six months.

For six months they’ve been together, had sex with each other, have loved each other, and the entire time Booker was fucking lying to her. He had sworn up and down that Léa hadn’t wanted him to touch her after Jean-Pierre was born—that they hadn’t had sex in months—and it had been the only reason Andy had felt comfortable letting their relationship become physical.

She’d never be able to stomach sharing Booker with Léa—not like that.

“You got her pregnant while…” Stomach acid burns up Andy’s throat and the first furious sob tears out of her chest. “You fucking got her pregnant while we were while we were together—while we were having sex,” she spits viciously, her anger and her betrayal blurring together in the worst ways. “You told me you hadn’t slept with Léa in a fucking year and then I had to sit here and listen to you tell Blanchet that that baby was yours. Who were you fucking lying to?!”

Booker shakes his head and his breathing begins to double as his forehead falls into the crook of his elbow. “I d-didn’t—m’sorry…”

“You didn’t what? Didn’t get her pregnant? Didn’t lie to me? Didn’t fuck her? Which is it?”

Andy feels the world drop out from underneath her when Booker simply mumbles, “I didn’t know she w-was pregnant…”

Her head spins and Andy’s knees buckle so fast that she barely catches herself on the arm of the couch. Her stomach turns and she swallows back a mouthful of acid as she watches Booker’s hand curl around the back of his neck, his shoulders curling into a tight hunch. As much as she hates letting this anger take control of her, Andy can’t stop the venom that drips out of her mouth as she snarls, “When was the last time you slept with her?”

Booker winces at her vicious tone and still won’t fucking look at her. “Please…” he begs weakly, body beginning to tremble. “Please d-don’t make me answer that q-question…”

She shakes her head, refusing to back down. After everything they’ve been through, after all the lies Booker has apparently been hiding, she deserves an answer. 

She has to know. 

“Tell me right now or we’re done,” Andy chokes, unable to hide the rage boiling under the surface. “Tell me or I’m going to walk out of this apartment and not come back until you’re gone.”

Booker makes some low, pained noise of distress in his throat and wraps the fingers of his other hand around the back of his neck as well—cast pressing into the skin so hard that it goes white. He’s breathing so hard that his entire body rocks with the force and Andy can see his muscles tighten like he’s trying to stop himself from shaking. “A-Andy, please,” Booker begs, so quietly that she can barely hear the words. 

She shakes her head. “Fucking tell me. Now.”

The answer doesn’t come—at least, not right away. His silence eats away at her sanity until Andy’s barely able to contain herself. And then, when it does, it’s even worse than she imagines. 

“Three…three days…” Booker mumbles, swallowing back a sob when it comes creeping up his throat. Andy feels her legs go numb as she stumbles back, apartment spinning. “Three d-days before she t-took the b-boys…”

A rush of stomach acid floods into her mouth as she does the math in her head.

“You were…” Andy’s vision goes hazy and it’s everything she can do to keep from screaming. “You came here that night,” she says, chest heaving as her breathing begins to double. “We had sex that night…You went—went down on—” A sob catches in her throat and disgust flows through her veins as Booker curls away from her. “It was the same day,” Andy croaks, folding over and burying her head in her hands. “It was the same fucking day.”

Her stomach flips again and the fact that she hasn’t thrown up yet is a miracle in itself. But her skin is crawling and she’s never felt more disgusting in her entire life.

Never felt more used.

The first sob rips out of her and all Andy can do is choke, “How could you do this to me? After everything we’ve been through?!”

Booker doesn’t answer her—frozen in the same paralyzing anguish that had trapped him earlier this morning—but she knows he’s still here in this painful moment right there with her. Can tell by the way he swallows down every creeping whimper that tries to claw its way up his throat.

“I loved you, Booker! For eight fucking years, I loved you and had to watch you go through hell because of Léa!” Andy exclaims, the tears finally flowing freely. “I wanted you so much—so fucking much and you knew how much I wanted us to be together—and even when you were finally brave enough to let it happen, you were still fucking her the entire goddamn time!”

He flinches at her furious words but still won’t look at her—and maybe that’s what hurts the most.

She’s going to be sick. If Andy has to stay here any longer, she’s going to do something she regrets. “I want you to leave,” she says, starting to pace around the living room like the trapped and wounded animal this fight has turned her into. “You need to fucking call Joe and have him come get you because I can’t have you here anymore.”

A shuddering sob punches out of Booker’s chest and he curls in on himself even tighter, like a collapsing black hole of grief. “N-No…” he weeps, fingers digging into his neck as if he was trying to anchor himself. “P-Please…”

Andy clenches her hands into fists, desperate to stop the furious trembling running all the way through her fingertips, and snarls, “You know, Book, I honestly don’t fucking know what hurts more—the fact that you were lying to me the entire time or the fact that you were still having sex with that fucking bitch after you finally had someone that actually loved you.”

Booker’s head finally snaps up, vacant eyes bloodshot and hands still wrapped protectively around the back of his neck. There’s a distraught look of betrayal on his face and his voice is absolutely wrecked with contempt as he shouts back, “Did you ever stop and think that maybe I didn’t fucking want to?!”

A shallow breath catches in her chest and Andy feels the floor drop out from under her as the words sink in.

“I did it so she would stop hitting me for ten fucking minutes. I did it so she would stop threatening to take the boys from me if I didn’t fuck her,” Booker chokes, staring up at her and through her all at the same time. “I did it because it made my shitty life a little fucking easier for whatever night I gave into her, Andy.”

There’s so much shame on his face that she doesn’t know what to do—doesn't know what to say. She’s absolutely paralyzed and the only word her mouth can form is the quiet whisper of his name. “Book…”

“You know, it wasn’t—wasn’t as bad before Théo,” Booker continues absently, eyes unfocused and distant, and Andy’s not quite sure who he’s trying to convince more—her or himself. “We were getting married and things were good for once. And even after they weren’t, I thought I was getting out. I told myself I was leaving so it didn’t matter.”

Her stomach turns with guilt and Andy’s voice cracks as she begs, “Booker, please, you don’t—”

“And then after I got out of prison, having someone touch me or just fucking hold me was enough to make me give in. I didn’t even care that she was the fucking reason I went away because I hated myself so goddamn much for what I did—and God, Andy, I was so fucking lonely.” His hands begin to tremble again and his face is white as a sheet as Booker shakes his head numbly. “But after Émile was born…I couldn’t stop her. I couldn’t get out of any of it. She just—she fucking owned me.”

Andy sucks a shallow breath into her aching chest and lets everything sink in. She had known about the abuse for so long—had been privy to the worst parts about Booker’s relationship with Léa—but she still had no fucking idea how bad it had actually been.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” she asks, voice breaking around the question she really doesn't want the answer to. Booker doesn’t answer her or even look at her—just stares off into the distance, as if lost in thought or trapped in the past. Andy swallows back her heartbreak and raises her voice as much as she can stomach. “Sébastien, look at me.”

His head snaps up and she’s honestly never seen him look more cornered in her entire life.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Andy asks again, quieter and far more broken than the first time. “Why didn’t you just tell me what she was doing to you?”

Booker shakes his head again and chokes out a bitter huff of a laugh, teeth clenched and shoulders shuddering. “It’s bad enough being the guy who lets his wife beat the shit out of him because he can’t fucking leave,” he spits, the first angry tear rolling down the high curve of his cheek. “But to be the kind of worthless fuck who can’t even get out of having sex when he doesn’t want to? That’s even worse and you know it.”

A breath catches in her throat and Andy’s heart drops into her stomach. “Booker, you weren’t—that wasn’t sex, that was—”

“I know what it was, Andy,” he snaps, cutting her off sharply. “Trust me, I know exactly what it fucking was.”

Her legs feel numb as Andy finally breaks free of the paralysis, stumbling over to kneel in front of Booker. He doesn’t look at her but what hurts more than that is the way Booker flinches when she touches the tense muscles of his forearm.

“None of that…it…it wasn’t your fault,” she mumbles, fumbling for words as she watches another stoic tear cut down his cheek. “I just wish you had told me. I would’ve understood.”

Booker lets go of a heavy, trembling exhale and finally meets her eyes, that shame still clinging to every line in his weary face. “I just…didn’t want you to think I was any weaker than you already did.”

Andy sits back, her weight shifting to her heels as her shoulders sag. “I think you’re a lot of things, Book—reckless, devoted, stubborn—but I’ve never once thought of you as weak.”

It barely feels like any kind of consolation at all—not after how much Booker’s had to open up the rawest wounds imaginable—but she’s not sure where else to start.

He’s silent for a few moments, staring at the space between his feet and Andy’s knees before a single tear rolls down his cheek. Booker’s voice is whisper-quiet and cracks around the edges of every syllable as he croaks, “I hate myself for how I felt when Blanchet told us the news. After that first wave of pain when he said there was a baby, all I could feel was relief that it was gone.”

She swallows thickly, blinking back tears and as that lump in her throat turns into a full, burning ache. “Booker, it’s okay…”

“I would’ve loved another baby, I just…” He lets out a shaking breath. “I just—I couldn’t do it again, not with her…”

Andy raises herself up just enough to wrap her arms around his neck and shoulders, and tries to ignore the way Booker still flinches at her touch. “Nobody’s going to blame you for being grateful that there’s nothing else tying you to Léa, especially me.”

Slowly but surely, Booker’s shoulders relax—muscles loosening as he sags into her embrace. He shifts, dropping his forehead to her shoulder with a weak sniffle. She tangles her fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck and just lets this new wave of grief wash over them in silence.

But even with Booker in her arms and the truth in her hands, Andy still feels that same sickening feeling covering her entire body like ink she can’t wipe off. It mixes with the overwhelming guilt until it’s the only thing left.

It’s not Booker’s fault—Andy understands that now—but it doesn’t mean she can just cast everything aside now that she knows why he had to do the things he did.

They stay like this though, wrapped in each other’s arms until Booker can barely keep his head up and Andy has to drag him back to bed. “I’m going to—I’m gonna go take a shower,” she murmurs, pressing a kiss to Booker’s hunched shoulder. “And then I’ll come back to bed, I promise.”

She can’t quite see him nod, but Andy can hear the quiet rasp of his beard against the pillow. The guilt grows even heavier when she catches Booker just staring numbly at the wall, saltwater pooling in the inner corner of his eye. She kisses his cheek before pushing herself to her feet and trudging to the bathroom.

Andy can’t bear to look at herself in the mirror as she undresses and turns the shower on as hot as it can go. Her stomach’s still churning uncomfortably and her eyes burn with held-back tears as she climbs into the steaming spray. She tries to ignore how her hand starts to shake as she grabs her washcloth, starting to scrub at her skin unceremoniously.

She just wants this feeling to stop. She wants the thought of Léa’s lingering memory off of her skin. Andy scrubs and scrubs until her arms and legs are red and raw and continues scrubbing even when she sees pinpricks of crimson blood come flooding to the surface.

She keeps scrubbing even after the tears come.

It takes Andy a few minutes to even realize she’s crying but once the dam breaks, she can’t hold back the hitching sobs that wrack her body one after another.

They come for how much she hates herself for thinking Booker would ever betray her like she had first assumed. They come for the horrible secret he had been carrying all by himself for these last five years. They come for the baby and the awful relief at its absence. They come because none of this should have happened in the first place and now, with Léa gone, they have no one to shoulder the blame.

It just circles around them endlessly.

Andy loses time in the shower, folded over in the tub with her hands over her mouth to muffle the sound of her sobs, but her breathing eventually evens enough that she’s able to towel herself off and stumble back to their bedroom.

Booker’s shoulders shift at the sound of her footsteps and, for once, Andy’s glad that he hasn’t managed to find sleep. He doesn’t shy away when she crawls under the covers beside him, but his breath does catch when Andy curls around behind him—pressing herself to his back and wrapping her arm around Booker’s chest.

“I’m sorry,” Andy whispers, voice hoarse and trembling from all the crying she’s done. “I’m sorry for yelling at you, for not trusting you.” A silent sob rolls through her body as she tucks her face against the back of Booker’s neck and holds her fiancé just a little tighter. “I’m s-sorry for asking you t-to leave…”

His hand comes up to curl around hers, squeezing it once. There are no words for this, nothing he needs to say, but Andy can feel the forgiveness anyway.

Chapter Text

Healing, Andy finds, comes in waves.

There are times when things are good—when they can go visit the boys and the horrors all seem far away. Times when Booker kisses her or lays his head in her lap and lets Andy massage all the tension from his tight shoulders.

But then there are times when the nightmares manifest so clearly that all Andy can do is hold Booker’s face in her hands as he stares right through her, wide-eyed and gasping for air. Times when the headaches are so piercing that she can’t even get Booker out of bed and he spends hours buried under the covers in complete silence. Times that every slamming door or footstep in the hall feels like a threat and Booker finds any available corner to barricade himself in.

And, as much as Andy hates to admit it, he’s not the only one struggling.

The tiny cracks like hairline fractures appear every time she can’t pull Booker out of an episode fast enough or when she has to say goodbye to the boys. She finds herself crying at completely unexpected times—like when she’s washing her hair or just making coffee in the morning. The apartment is too quiet and sometimes Andy feels like they’re living in a tomb.

They finally receive notice that Léa’s body has been released and, after much debate and many tears shed by both of them, a decision is made.

Her body will be cremated and stored in a columbarium until the last of the boys turns eighteen and they can decide whether to keep storing her ashes or scatter them. It’s hard to stomach the idea of Booker having to pay for storing Léa’s ashes for the next seventeen years, but Andy reminds herself that it’s the most selfless gesture he could ever make for the boys.

Give them time to grow and be old enough to know the truth before they have to say a final goodbye to their mother.

There’s a slight reprieve in the heaviness when the psychiatrist Booker’s been sent to ends up being a perfect match—a man who introduces himself as Dr. James Copley and specializes in relationship-based PTSD. Andy can see Booker’s shoulders pulled up as they sit in the waiting room before the appointment, but when he comes out, he looks so much…lighter. Like everything wasn’t weighing so heavily on his mind anymore.

They start with sessions twice a week and Andy just prays that it starts to help soon.

For almost three weeks, things are okay—even if they’re not great. For almost three weeks, they’re moving forward. For almost three weeks, Andy sees a light at the end of the tunnel, even when things are two steps forward and one step back.

But then comes the moment when she accidentally forgets that knock before walking in on Booker changing in the bedroom and everything goes to hell. The moment where a flashback comes so vividly that Booker’s not even mentally there—naked and cowering from her in a corner as he begs over and over again, “Léa, stop. Please, I don’t want to.” No matter how many times Andy reminds him that it’s her and not Léa—it doesn’t matter.

He’s not even there.

And it fucking breaks her.

She ends up on the floor of the hallway, Nicky trying to keep her from hyperventilating while Joe works on getting Booker to unlock the bedroom door. “I can’t—I can’t keep feeling like this,” Andy gasps through her frantic breaths. “He thought I was—He called me Léa, Nicky…I can’t fucking be like her, not ever.”

Nicky clasps her face between his hands, gently promising, “Just because Booker was seeing her, doesn’t mean he thought you were Léa.” He shakes his head, desperately trying to stay composed. “He’s just—This is just what his brain does when it’s scared. It’s not your fault.”

“It feels like it is, though,” she chokes, words shuddering around a creeping sob. “I can’t fucking stop thinking about it and every time I do, I just want to throw up.”

He’s quiet for a moment before looking at her earnestly. “You know, if you need help or just someone to talk to, you can tell me,” Nicky says quietly, as if he can see all of the shame Andy’s trying to hide. “Booker and Théo are both in therapy and it’s not something you should be embarassed to need as well. Remember, you’ve been through something traumatic too.”

Andy’s throat goes tight and, as much as it shouldn’t be a hard thing to admit—not now, not to Nicky—it is. She’s been so strong for everyone else that giving into this weakness hurts more than it should.

But, as the first tear rolls down her cheek, the words seem to come out all on their own.

“I think I need help, Nicky,” Andy croaks, meeting her friend’s sapphire eyes wearily. “I can’t keep feeling like this.”

Nicky brushes her tears away with his thumbs and nods. “I’ll get you some names and numbers of some therapists I trust,” he says. “You’ll be in good hands.”

She has to believe him—there’s no other choice now—and there’s nothing to do except let her guard down, drop her head onto Nicky’s shoulder, and let this terrible feeling pass through her.

~~~

But even through all their hardships, through every new thing life seems to throw at them, Andy is just so glad to just have Booker at her side.

It’s little moments when he looks at her with such love in his eyes—at the simplest times like when she’s mid-bite in the middle of breakfast or when they’re both tucked in the bathroom brushing their teeth together—when Andy can see straight through these next few years and into forever.

She can see them both with grey hairs peeking out at their temples, with laugh lines and creases at their eyes from all the smiling they’ve done since. She sees the boys growing into their long, lanky teenage bodies, lounging on every surface in the house. She sees a life full of love.

And it’s so, so clear. No haziness, no doubt, no faltering. It’s there.

They just have to take the first step toward it.

But in all of the swirling chaos, Andy’s not quite sure where to begin. When every day is just about survival, there’s no time to plan for what’s going to come next. As much as she knows the rest of it will come soon, she wishes she could skip to the best parts.

However, the start of it comes far sooner than she ever imagines it to.

It’s late at night and they’re tangled together on the couch, Booker lying on top of her as Andy strokes her fingers lazily over his back. In a swirling haze of doctor’s appointments and supervised visits and paperwork, they’ve had so little time to just be together. 

But it’s quiet and Booker’s weight is a reassuring comfort on top of her, especially when Andy closes her eyes and focuses on his steady breathing.

“You know, I meant what I said that night at the hospital,” Booker suddenly whispers, turning his head to rest his chin on her sternum. He catches Andy’s hand as she tries to comb her fingers through his hair and presses his lips to her knuckles. “I want to marry you, Andy.”

A breath catches in her chest. “Book…”

“And I don’t want to have to wait until it’s ‘okay’, or until enough time has passed since Léa’s been gone because I’m not mourning her.” He wraps his arms around her waist, pulling Andy close and burying his face in the warmth of her chest. “We don’t even have to tell anyone,” Booker murmurs, closing his eyes again. “But I want you to be my wife and I don’t want to have to wait any longer.”

“We’ll go to the mairie, then,” Andy says, pillowing her cheek on his head. “Next week, we’ll go get the paperwork submitted. And then when we’re allowed to get married, we can go—just by ourselves.”

She knows Joe and Nicky wouldn’t care, not after everything they’ve been through, but this is something that she and Booker need to do alone. Some secret for just for the two of them to share. In a year or so, they can have a real ceremony with their family and friends and kids—after the proper amount of time has passed—but Booker’s right.

She doesn’t want to waste any more time.

And so, without fanfare or much ceremony, they get married. Andy wears a dress from a thrift shop while Booker wears the nicest dress shirt they can find. They request witnesses from the registrar to keep it as quiet as possible and the fact that they don’t even bother with rings doesn’t matter. The moment Andy kisses Booker in the mairie as her husband, everything else fades away.

It’s taken them eight long, hard years, but now they’re finally where they belong—together.

When they get back home, it really does feel like a dream. Booker keeps staring at her like he’s in a daze, a soft smile on his face as he strokes his thumb over Andy’s knuckles. “You’re my wife…” he whispers breathlessly, like he can’t even believe the words himself. “You’re really my wife… ”

Andy leans over and carefully tangles her free hand in Booker’s hair before murmuring, “I’m your wife. And you’re my husband. Now and always.” He sags into her touch when she kisses him, eyes fluttering shut, and grants her access to his mouth the moment her tongue brushes along the seam of his lips. Andy shifts slowly, climbing into his lap as she asks quietly, “Is this is alright?” Booker nods but she shakes her head at his silence. “I want to hear you say it, Book.”

“It’s alright, Andy,” he pants, drawing her closer. “I want this. I want you.”

They fall back on the bed, tangled in one another, and for the first time in a long time, everything feels right.

~~~

Finally, almost two months to the day after Léa’s death, they get the call.

It comes an hour after they get back from therapy—Booker laying on his back on the floor, trying to stave off some faint nausea that had been creeping in all morning while Andy answers some emails from work. There’s some song softly playing on the stereo but she’s too distracted to figure out what it is.

A rattling vibration from the table cuts through the gentle serenity—Booker letting out a soft groan. “Ugh,” he mutters. “I’m just going to let it ring.”

“Might be something about the boys,” Andy hums, nudging his shoulder with her toes. “Just check and see who it is.”

Booker sighs, shifting up on one elbow and fumbling around on the top of the coffee table for his phone. “It’s Nile,” he says, a sudden trepidation flooding over his face when he finally looks at the screen. “She doesn’t usually call, not when I haven’t had any appointments or visits scheduled.”

Andy slowly sets her laptop to the side, heart beginning to beat in double-time as Booker answers the call.

“Oui, allo? Yeah…Yes, it’s an alright time.” He glances at her and says, “Yeah, Andy’s here, hold on.” Booker pulls the phone from his ear and presses a button. “Okay, Nile, you’re on speakerphone.”

“Hi Andy!” the younger woman says, voice crackling over the phone. “So, I’d much rather be able to deliver this news in person, but I didn’t want to wait any longer than I had to.”

Andy’s heart skips a beat as she meets Booker’s anxious eyes and she finds herself reaching for his hand out of sheer instinct alone. But that apprehension disappears in an instant the moment the next words come rattling out of the phone. 

“I just wanted you to know that I’ve signed off on the paperwork for you to take your boys home, Sébastien,” Nile says, a smile evident even in the crackling of her voice. “You can pick them up any time you’d like.”

A sharp breath punches out of Booker and his eyes go wide. “Wait, really?” he chokes, sounding just as stunned as Andy feels. “Like, we can go get them today? And we don’t have to give them back?”

“They’re yours to keep. I’ll still be checking in and helping you guys out until your file’s closed, but you’ll have custody of the boys regardless.” Nile hesitates for a second before asking, “Do you want me to call Joe and Nicky or do you—”

“No, no, we can call them,” Andy stammers, all of the air rushing back into her lungs as she shakes herself out of the daze she’s in. “Thank you so much for calling us, Nile, really. This is the best news we’ve gotten in a while.”

“You’re welcome—both of you. I’ve been rooting for you guys since day one.”

The phone beeps as the call ends and all they can do is stare at each other in stunned silence. Booker blinks, chest heaving as his eyes suddenly go glassy, and Andy barely hears him over the pounding of blood in her own ears when he finally speaks. “We get…we finally get to bring them home…”

Andy’s knees slam into the floor as she drops off the couch, clutching Booker’s face between her hands. Their mouths meet in a frantic, off-center kiss, that desperate relief drowning everything else out as Booker pulls her close.

“Let’s go get them, Book,” she whispers against his lips. “Let’s bring our boys home.”

And so a celebratory dinner is planned that night.

Nicky calls off work and pulls out all the stops—enlisting the help of Théo and Booker in the kitchen while she packs up the boys’ clothing and toys with Joe. The house is full of laughter and spices and singing and Andy can’t remember the last time they were all this happy.

She has to stop and take in the scene in front of her when she passes the doorway to the kitchen, just watching Booker help Théo pat out the farinata, and realizes that this is going to be her new forever. Moments like this where no one is looking over their shoulder or walking on eggshells. Moments that can last as long as they need to because no one has to go back to a broken home.

It can just be like this.

“Tatie!!” a tiny voice exclaims behind her, Émile thumping down the hall towards her. Andy bends down and scoops him up, kissing the toddler’s sleep-flushed cheek before she ruffles his messy hair. He giggles and wraps himself around her as he says, “I awake now! Not sleepy ‘more.”

“I’m glad you had a good nap,” she hums, squeezing the two-year-old’s hand gently before settling him on her hip. “Is JP still sleeping?”

Émile nods, and Andy feels her heart swell when his brown eyes suddenly light up as he sees Booker over her shoulder. “Papa! Téo!” he exclaims, wriggling out of her arms and careening into the kitchen.

Théo jumps off the stepstool and intercepts his younger brother before Émile can reach their father, grabbing the toddler’s face with olive oil-covered hands. “Mimile, guess what?!” Théo exclaims excitedly. “We don’t have to stay at Tonton and Zio’s house anymore! We’ve got a new room with Papa and Tatie!”

Émile’s face squishes in his brother’s hands and he looks unperturbed by the news as he mumbles, “Okay, Téo. Maman coming too?”

Andy can see Booker’s shoulders tense as Théo drops his hands, as if preparing for a mess of emotions from his boys, but the four-year-old just says, “No, Mimile; Maman’s dead, remember?”

He says it so matter-of-factly that it almost worries Andy—if nothing else but the sheer detachment of it all—but it doesn’t seem to faze Émile. The toddler just looks between his older brother and Booker before nodding. “Oh yeah, I forget. I sleep with Téo in new bed too?”

“Yeah, you two still get to share a bed in your new room,” Booker promises, crouching down to wipe a smear of floury oil from Émile’s cheek. “Tatie and I knew you’d want to be together.” His gaze tips up to meet Andy’s and her heart flips at the shy smile Booker gives her. It’s that gentle reassurance in his eyes and the mirroring of her own thoughts that puts her soul at ease. 

The silent echo of: ‘I think we’re going to be alright.’

They move onto the patio for dinner, wrangling the boys into chairs just long enough to feed them some spaghetti with pesto before Nicky brings out the fish and vegetables. Théo keeps sneaking pieces of the baklava Joe brought home and Andy pretends not to notice as long as he keeps giving her half.

It’s good. It’s so, so good.

The night drags on, the wine flowing until Andy’s body feels warm and fuzzy and a pleasant shiver runs through her body when Booker strokes his thumb just behind her ear, arm draped lazily over her shoulder.

Jean-Pierre is fast asleep in her arms while Émile and Théo doze curled up in the daybed together after nearly an hour of playing in the yard, but nobody moves to clean up dinner. It doesn’t matter that the sun went down nearly two hours ago and the candles on the outdoor table are burning low—they’ve got all the time in the world.

“—and fuck it, now you can finally quit that shitty job at GiFi and come work with me.” Joe says, feet propped up across Nicky’s knees. “Even a shitty entry-level marketing position is better than that stupid assistant manager gig you’ve got going now.”

“Mmm, you forgot I got demoted back in April when Léa came and started yelling at me in the fucking store,” Booker points out with a roll of his eyes. “Got relegated to the back room so she couldn’t make a scene even if she came in again—and that was after I practically begged my manager not to fire me.”

Joe throws one hand up. “See?! Fuck that job,” he huffs before grabbing his wine glass off the table. “Seriously, let me put in a good word and you could have any job you want.”

Booker’s thumb stops its gentle path and Andy can feel his arm tense. She pillows her cheek on his shoulder as she looks up at him and sees Booker staring at his lap distractedly. They’re close enough that Andy can hear his breath hitch in his chest as Booker lets out a heavy sigh. 

“I can’t—” he starts, closing his eyes as she squeezes his thigh under the table. “Joe, I can’t even look at my phone for more than ten minutes without starting to get a headache. Even when I get cleared to physically go back to work—which who knows when the hell that might be—I don’t know if I’ll be able to do any kind of computer work.”

The table goes quiet and Andy breaks the uncomfortable silence with a gentle, “Even with the boys living with us, my salary will be enough to cover us until Booker decides he’s ready to go back to work.” Booker kisses the crown of her head gently as a silent ‘thank you’, finally relaxing as he reaches for his glass of sparkling water. “We’ve already talked about Booker possibly even taking the next couple years off, at least until Jean-Pierre’s in kindergarten.”

The corners of Nicky’s mouth twitch into a smirk as he takes a sip of his wine and suddenly asks, “Does that make Booker your sugar baby, then?”

Andy lets out a loud, surprised snort of laughter and Booker folds over, water spraying everywhere as he tries to cover his mouth. His shoulders shake with laughter and the sound is so unexpected that it takes her a moment to even realize that he is laughing. 

Nicky’s eyes light up with delight at his friend’s amusement but Joe’s just staring at Booker in stunned silence, wide eyes quickly going glassy as the older man straightens upright. “Fuck, sorry guys,” Booker chuckles, clearing his throat and wiping tears of laughter from his flushed face. “I didn’t mean to—”

Joe’s face suddenly crumples and a sob punches out of his chest as he quickly detaches himself from Nicky and stumbles to his feet, scrubbing his shaking hands over his face. Booker looks at Andy, bewildered, but she doesn’t have any fucking clue what’s going on either, so she just shakes her head in confusion. Joe muffles another sob into his palms as Booker slowly rises to his feet.

“Shit…Joe…” he starts, reaching out one careful hand. “Are you oka—”

His words die as Joe suddenly turns and grapples him into a tight hug, burying his face in Booker’s shoulder. “I haven’t heard you laugh like that in five fucking years,” the younger man chokes. “You have no goddamn idea how much I missed this part of you.”

Andy’s throat goes tight and she catches the glinting tears in Nicky’s eyes as Booker embraces Joe back just as tight. “I know,” he whispers. “I’m sorry I was gone so long.”

It’s late by the time they finally leave Joe and Nicky’s house—despite their numerous offers to let them stay the night. They said they were going to bring the boys home and that’s what they’re going to do.

“Thanks for letting us borrow the car for the night,” she says, rubbing her eyes with her free hand.

“Are you sure you’re okay to drive? I know you had some wine tonight.” Joe asks as they watch Nicky and Booker buckle the two older boys into their car seats. “You guys could take our bed because Nicky and I really don’t mind sleeping on the pull-out couch if you think you’re—”

“Joe, I’m fine,” Andy insists, hitching Jean-Pierre’s car seat up higher on her hip. “Booker and I really just want to sleep in our own bed tonight.” A soft smile crosses her friend’s face and she raises a questioning eyebrow. “What?”

“Nothing,” he mutters, shrugging one shoulder offhandedly. “It’s just nice—hearing you say ‘our bed’ like that. Like it’s just as much Booker’s place as it is yours.”

“It’s going to be everyone’s place after we get back home,” Andy says, starting to gently sway back and forth when JP begins to stir. “It’s going to be a tight fit with all the boys there—and we thought about trying to get a bigger place—but…” She watches Booker duck back into the car to kiss a sleeping Théo and Émile one last time and blinks back the creeping, happy tears. “It’ll be better like this. Having everyone close.”

Joe pulls her into a tight hug, kissing her cheek. “It's going to be great, Andy, I promise.”

The car ride home is quiet, Booker’s hand on her thigh as Andy drives them back to their apartment. She can hear one of the boys snoring in the backseat but, while she’s pretty sure it’s Émile, she doesn’t want to risk disturbing them by turning around to check.

“I stole a couple pieces of baklava for you,” Booker murmurs, suddenly breaking the gentle silence at a red light. “Figured you might want some for breakfast tomorrow before you go back to work.”

A simple ‘thank you’ is right on the tip of her tongue but something inside Andy melts the moment Booker squeezes her thigh, thumb brushing over the tender skin, and the only thing on her mind when she looks over at her husband is, “I love you, Book.”

She can see his breathing hitch—chest rising and falling quickly as the words seemingly knock him off his feet again, even after hearing it hundreds of times—but Andy’s still unprepared at how wholly devoted Booker sounds as he echoes back, “I love you too, Andromache…”

It always feels like the first time, like they’re suddenly right back to when it was just the two of them tucked together in Andy’s bed, but she knows it all comes down to one thing.

The fact that Booker gets to say the words and really mean them this time around.

Getting the boys up into the apartment and into bed is a much bigger process than getting them into the car. Andy has to awkwardly juggle Jean-Pierre’s car seat with one arm and a drowsy Émile in the other, while Booker carries Théo. “Are you sure you’ve got them both?” Booker whispers in the elevator, holding one hand up to shield Théo’s eyes from the overhead lights. “I can take one of them if—”

“I got ‘em, babe, don’t worry,” she reassures, leaning back against the side of the elevator to shift Émile’s weight. “Carried you up enough times, haven’t I?”

He rolls his eyes but relents. “Fine, fine, I should have never doubted you.”

Jean-Pierre wakes up for the briefest moment when Booker gets him settled into his crib, but Théo and Émile both remain fast asleep, even as Andy eases them out of their clothes and into their pajamas. They get the two older boys tucked into bed and Andy can’t help but smile at the way Émile immediately reaches for Théo in his sleep.

She smoothes her palm over their heads before stepping aside to allow Booker a moment alone with the boys.

The low light from the living room casts everything in a golden glow as it spills around Andy in the doorway, but she’d be blind to miss the undeniable joy and relief on her husband’s face as Booker leans down and kisses his sons.

His shoulders sag, back to the door, and Andy realizes this might be the first time he’s been able to fully let his guard down.

“I’ll be on the couch, okay?” she whispers, offering Booker a smile when he glances up at her. He nods, settling on the bed as Andy backs out of the room, closing the door until just a crack of darkness remains.

The apartment is quiet as Booker finally emerges, rubbing his eyes tiredly. “I’m going to go change and then I’ll come back, yeah?”

It takes him a few minutes to return, but Andy’s heart flips in her chest when Booker finally comes back out of the bedroom, tugging his tank top down over his stomach.

The last of the bruises have finally faded and it feels like they’re right back where they first started. Back to when they first met eight years ago at Joe’s party and everything had been easier. Back to that blossoming friendship and the hesitant, stolen glances that neither of them had noticed from the other.

Now he’s all hers—no strings attached.

A slight flush creeps over Booker’s cheeks and a small smile tugs on his lips as he murmurs, “Hey, Andy…”

“Hey yourself,” she says, reaching out one beckoning hand. 

Her mind goes fuzzy as Booker curls his fingers around hers and sinks one knee between her legs. He wraps his free hand around the back of her head, tangling through Andy’s hair as he draws her into a deep kiss. They fall back to the seat of the couch, Booker’s body a reassuring weight on hers as Andy hooks one leg around his waist. Her eyes flutter shut as one of his hands slips up under her shirt and everything else disappears around them.

This is her Booker.

Her Booker, who is so in love with her that Andy can feel it in every breath that passes between the two of them. Her Booker, who trusts her so completely that he doesn’t even flinch when her fingertips dip into the waistband of his shorts. Her Booker, who’s finally here with her, with no need to leave in the morning.

Andy truly can’t imagine a better ending.

Booker entwines both of their hands together, pressing them up above her head as he rolls his hips down against hers. “Is this okay?” he pants, moving down along Andy’s neck. She nods, swallowing back a moan and tilting her head back to give his lips more access.

Her fingers tangle in his hair and her ankles hook around the small of Booker’s back, and Andy gives herself over to him so willingly she feels like she’s falling through the sky.

But just as she surrenders herself completely, a sudden wail erupts from the boys' bedroom.

“Papaaaaaaaaa?”

They both freeze, Booker’s forehead dropping against her collarbone as they catch their breath. “Fuck,” he whispers, gripping her hands just a little tighter. “It’s Théo…”

Andy lets out a breathless laugh, kissing the top of his head gently. “It’s okay, you go,” she murmurs as Booker reluctantly detangles himself from her body and sits up. “I’ll be here when you get back.”

A soft look of adoration floods over his face as he leans in to kiss her quickly. Andy squeezes his hand once as he says, “I’ll be quick, I promise.”

Don’t worry, she thinks as she watches Booker disappear into the bedroom once again. I’m not going anywhere.